Undone
by muraka6211
Summary: In the end it is her hair, of all unlikely things, that unravels him.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Forgot the disclaimer, and caught some typos that having a beta (hooray for mhgood!) will render less likely in the future.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Star Trek, or the Enterprise, or the Academy, or Uhura, or Spock, and I don't mean to imply that I do.

* * *

The Cadet had been right on time, as ever, though he sensed that she had rushed. Her heart rate was elevated and she was perspiring very slightly from the exertion, but she entered the room exactly on the hour and greeted him quietly, as she always did. He let out a very slight breath as he looked up at her, feeling a sort of tension release from his shoulders as she smiled her hello. Her company was enjoyable; he was pleased she was on time. Even if it was only to read over Romulan tragedies from the mid-22nd century. Better to read it with her than to read it alone. Unpleasant activities are improved by pleasant company.

Her insights would undoubtedly prove fascinating, and he would endeavor to avoid causing her to lose her temper. As he had the day before, and the day before that. And three days prior. He was making a bit of a habit of it, truth be told, even though his voice maintained his practiced evenness.

Ten minutes into the work, however, he somehow (and later, he would never be able to explain how; the mental oversight was peculiar, he was not given to distraction) found himself looking not at the book between them, but at the side of Cadet Uhura's head.

A piece of her ponytail had somehow, incredibly, improbably, slipped free from the elastic and hung from its origin halfway down the crown of her head and over her shoulder. Tangled, a bit, looped. Disorderly.

There appeared to be no logical explanation for this: how it broke free, how it pulled from the elastic. Her hair was too long and thus heavy for such accidents to be likely. He examined the possibilities individually.

Perhaps she had missed it this morning, arranging her hair.

Unlikely. The Cadet was very thorough in all regards, and he was certain, despite a lack of direct observation, that she was well-practiced in the areas of human female grooming.

Perhaps the slip had been deliberate, a new fashion for female hair.

Equally unlikely. The Cadet was not given to fashion, by his estimation, and he could not recall other human females sporting such a style. Though he admittedly did not make a habit of analyzing the hair of other human females.

Perhaps it had caught on something, pulled, and she had not yet realized...

"...Spock?"

He refocused and looked to her face, practice and habit preventing him from jumping at the sound of his name, unprefaced as it was by the usual formalities. He had been, unequivocally, staring. She had likely noticed. The Cadet was very observant, in her quiet, thorough way. It was one of the qualities of her personality that he found appealing. She possessed an appreciation of detail lacking in most humans.

She was flushing, a bit, appearing surprised at her own use of his name, inappropriate as it was.

It was rare for him to be caught unawares, like this. He considered an appropriate response. She likely noticed the pause: her aural sensitivity was unparalleled. His Vulcan education and cultural immersion had simply not prepared him for such a situation. A Vulcan would never leave a hair so glaringly undone. A Vulcan would never refer to him by his name without the requisite title. A Vulcan would never use his name in the form of a question in the first place, title or no. Such a thing was a uniquely human, and maddeningly imprecise, query. How did one respond to such a question? What was she asking?

How would an average human respond?

His observations of humans were by no means complete, but he had the distinct impression that a full-human male might change the subject, distracting the Cadet from his unusual behavior with talk of the weather, or of translations, or Romulan tragi-comedy, as might be more appropriate in this situation. He rejected this option. Such a response was not ideal because it was not the type of response he would offer under normal circumstances. If he were carefully analyzing an object, such as the errant strand in question, he would comment on the object of his attention, not on unrelated objects, such as the book between them. If the object in question were unimportant, he would not pay so much attention to it that he became distracted from the task at hand. Distraction signifies concentrated thought, signifying an object worthy of comment or correction. Talking about the translation when he was staring at her head represented inconsistent behavior. She would notice the inconsistency.

Sufficient seconds had passed that there was no logical response to her ill-formed question that would adequately address what he now perceived as awkwardness.

Her brow furrowed at him, confused. Concerned? Teacher and student-turned-assistant had been bent over the book, of which he had, regrettably, only one copy (perhaps he should make additional copies for future assistants, to download to their PADDs? The possibility of not simply sharing, as they were, had never even occurred to him), preparing notes for the following week's lecture. She turned to him, and the hair (the hair!) slipped now, over her ear. Hanging loose down the front of her blazer. He realized, now that his thoughts were wandering, that they were physically closer than was typical for a superior and inferior officer. Superior and inferior officers, working in close proximity under normal operating circumstances, maintain, on average (he estimated, quickly), a minimum distance of 50 centimeters. By contrast, their knees were within several centimeters of touching under the table. The sensation was pleasant, if unusual. She looked down, and then up. She did not move. She had noticed, too. Did they always sit so close? He was unsure; he had not been paying attention in their earlier meetings; he only noticed her argument, her laughter. Her precision. He chided himself for the oversight.

She was human. What would a human do? He remained unsure. He knew quite suddenly what he wanted to do, however, which seemed, of all the rapidly depleting options, to be the next most desirable response. The hair was out of place; it should be put back into place. He reached up with his right hand, the hand that had been placed so close to her own, he now noticed, and pushed the offending piece back behind her ear. The style remained incomplete, but at least it was a bit neater.

He did not miss how her eyes widened at him as he did this, his fingers, warmer than what she was likely accustomed to, sliding behind the ridge of her ear. Eyes widening in a human female could accompany any number of responses. He considered the possibilities.

She could be afraid. This was unlikely. His hands passed near vital areas of her person, her neck, several important nerve pathways, but he moved slowly, softly, so as not to frighten her. His gesture, while uncharacteristic, was certainly not threatening, and his touch was deliberately gentle. She was unlikely to interpret this small, strange movement as dangerous.

She was, with a high probability, surprised. It was out of the ordinary for an instructor to touch a student, deliberately, in a manner that he calculated perhaps a moment late was quite intimate, even to a human, accustomed to indiscreet behavior. From him, part-Vulcan, understood to be distant, by human standards, it represented behavior that was wildly out of character.

Her skin was cooler than his own, he observed, and very soft. The sensation was enjoyable, and he found himself following the same unlikely instinct that caused him to touch her in the first place and trailed his fingers down the side of her neck as his hand returns towards the table. He heard her breath catch.

Human females might react this way when aroused. This was improbable. He was unattractive to the majority of human females, his manners foreign to them, his features and personality strange. Cadet Uhura was a very attractive and intelligent human, she possessed numerous options for a romantic or sexual partner. Human partner. The Cadet moreover possessed an admirable understanding of and respect for regulation, and he was an instructor, and a superior officer. There was a low probability that she thought of him in a sexual context. There was a low probability that she thought of him in a romantic context, or even a friendly one. This was an incontrovertible fact, even if he found himself looking ever more forward to their meetings, even if he enjoyed finding new and more challenging readings for her, even if he found himself moving ever more slowly to end any given afternoon together. Even if she had the previously-unobserved ability to almost make him laugh.

He realized with a quick flash of understanding that his own behavior had been out of the ordinary for several weeks, at least.

Still, he had not said anything. She had spoken his name, as a question, and he had not responded. He had touched her, intimately, and observed her response, inexplicable as it was. But he had not responded. He searched for something, anything, to say.

She had said his name.

"Your first name is Nyota."

She blinked.

This was an admission that he had looked up her personal record, which was not within the standard protocol. Somehow, his carefully organized world had begun to unravel, and he found himself at a loss to explain how.

"Yes." Her response was a whisper, though he had not asked a question. This was an unfamiliar sensation, feeling as though he had stepped out of his body, as though he were watching himself perform these strange and unfamiliar actions from across the room. He wondered if this was his human psyche manifesting unexpectedly. He realized he had been leaning towards her as his hand slid down her neck, to her shoulder, down her arm, almost to the elbow. She shivered. He noticed.

Maybe she found him attractive after all. Improbable, but not impossible. There were centimeters between their faces now, too.

His voice was low.

"Nyota, may I pose a personal query?"

"Of course."

"I am unable to properly calculate the nature of your likely response. I apologize in advance."

She looked him in the eye, now, studying him. At some point between his calculations he had come to a decision; the rational portion of his brain observed that this was most out of the ordinary. No matter. How to ask? Was it customary to ask? His education in human habits was evidently lacking in several regards. He was nervous, which was rare. He was not often nervous. Before important examinations or trials, he might suffer nerves, which he suppressed. One must remain calm while performing important tasks or one will not perform to one's ability. One practices such tasks in advance to avoid nerves, to perform well under pressure.

He had never done this before.

His analyses proved unnecessary, it turned out, as his estimations of time and imperceptible movement and breath proved very slightly inaccurate. Her now extreme proximity had unforeseen effects on his almost entirely shredded self control.

His lips meet hers aeons before he has the opportunity to finish asking for permission.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Well, between your excessively kind reviews and the urging of my newly-acquired-and-outrageously-awesome beta, mhgood, I've decided to go the long haul on this one. So here's chapter 2.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Star Trek. It's Roddenberry's sandbox, I'm just playing in it. I don't own much of anything, really, so suing me would be counterproductive.

* * *

They did not discuss it that first afternoon.

It would have taken too much time, and his schedule was constrained by the classes he had to teach. As for Cadet Uhura--Nyota--she had, as he was aware, several lab sessions on Tuesday afternoon and evenings. She often worked late into the night; this fact was why their Tuesday sessions were scheduled so early in the day. Her Tuesday afternoons were not conducive to protracted discussions about inappropriate relationships.

The very practical problems of scheduling did not occur to him immediately. At first, in the slow movements of kissing her, and observing, with pleasant clarity, that she was kissing him back, he was too astonished, and then pleased, to consider that this was an unorthodox way to treat one's assistant, that there were several portions of the Starfleet Regulations directly relevant to this situation, and that he was contravening very specific subsets of his orders. That a discussion of the situation between himself and the Cadet (Nyota!) was very clearly in order.

These thoughts, despite their relevance, were surprisingly easy to suppress. It was difficult to concentrate, with her like this. He observed the awkwardness of their relative positions--although he and Nyota had been in very close physical proximity prior to his indiscretion, the position of their seats did not allow him to be as close to her as was ideal, now that circumstances had changed. Their knees bumped, her hand reached to his shoulder, and he considered how much improved their relative angle would be if they could stand. Or lie.

Instead, his hand slid of its own accord back up her arm and to her face, cupping her jaw, as he learned his way around her mouth and teeth and tongue and breath. He moved slowly, carefully, so as to both not frighten her away and to not lose his mind entirely. Some part of his brain recognized his need to maintain control over this situation (late to look for control, another part of his brain observed; he wondered idly when his internal thoughts had become so wry. Perhaps when they had also become irrational), if only so that he could hold on to the moment for as long as he was permitted. She tasted of fresh air, of starlight; their lips moving together were natural, belonging, involuntary. The heretofore unintroduced part of his mind that had started this peculiar chain of events was very, very relieved.

The rest of his mind was not quite so sanguine. It wasn't until she gasped into his mouth, and he pulled her to him more closely for just a moment, that he remembered himself, and tore himself away.

She stared at him, breathing hard. The loose strand of hair, the source of his undoing, spilled down her shoulder and the front of her blazer, now a bit rumpled from his hands. He had lost control in anger as a child, but it had been years; he had never lost control like this.

He was not entirely sure what to say. He reflected that this was the _original_ problem, and his apparent solution had not improved the situation. He made note of this fact to consider in the future. He was behaving irrationally. How did humans sustain such uncertainty _at all times_?

What was _she_ thinking? His experience with these matters was limited to the single datapoint, but he considered case studies from his education in human employment custom. She was, with high probability, regretful, having been coerced into untoward behavior by a superior officer. Perhaps she felt shame. He regretted this.

In cases like this one, where the correct course of action is unclear, protocol often provides useful guidance.

"Ms. Uhura, I apologize for my behavior. I am in violation of--"

She cut him off. She climbed into his lap, and pulled his face to hers with a force he was not expecting. She was trained, of course, but she was still small, for a human, for a human female, and human females are understood to have strength equivalent to that of the average Vulcan male of age nine. But this angle was much improved, from a physical perspective.

He considered, later that evening, in a sequence of thoughts that were difficult to control, the course that this situation might have taken if the door had not chimed at that precise instant.

For the first time in a long time he started in surprise. At the very least his eyes blinked open wide, at the same time that she jumped, and they broke apart, staring in astonishment at one another, Nyota on his lap, his hands on her waist. A second passed and she was standing, and the rush of air between them was novel and unwelcome. The book on the table rustled in the wind created by her rapid, but poised, efforts to collect herself, smooth her uniform, straighten her skirt.

He marveled at her composure.

"Are you expecting someone?"

"No. I am not."

The interruption had, at least, added much-needed structure to their conversation.

He waited until she was seated, until she had lifted her chair and separated it from his own by a minimum of 75 centimeters, by his estimation, before speaking.

"Enter."

It was an instructor from the science college, coming to ask a short question that unfortunately but predictably turned into a protracted discussion about the lower-level xeno-neurochemistry syllabus. Nyota bent her head over the book, pausing only to break her seemingly impeccable concentration to acknowledge the captain in question. She scanned passages with practiced ease.

He added her apparent self-control to the mental list that delineated her more appealing attributes. He had stood at the opening of the door, and the hands behind his back clenched one another with slightly more than their usual rigidity.

The captain left, after what felt like an unreasonable period of time but was, in truth, only 20 minutes, and the door shut with a click. He turned. She was still working, alone in the concentration that made her so good at her job, and he admired her from the back, long ponytail trailing, as it did. The style had become more tousled over the course of their exertions, despite her attempts to straighten up in response to his unexpected visitor. The stray piece hung loose, still; it had escaped from its location behind her ear.

This time, he stopped his uncharacteristic reverie before it had chance to take hold.

"Cadet Uhura."

She looked up, spoke. Her voice was subdued, for her. "I have prepared summaries of several passages you might find instructive for the course next week."

She paused, glanced at the clock.

"I have to go to class."

This was not what he had anticipated, even though it was true.

Her veneer visibly cracked, for a moment. She turned from him, her hair falling in front of her face, as she collected her things.

The distance between them helped him maintain his balance. He weighed his options as he watched her place her additional PADD in her bag, and collect her stylus for storage.

He could say nothing. He knew the Cadet well, and she would read him, and say nothing of it either. She would return, or not, but nothing would be said, and no one would know, and he would never have to speak of it, or think of it, beyond in his nightly meditations, as an instructive example of what happened when he let himself lose track of his emotions.

He could apologize, and terminate their working relationship. This was a more honorable option than the first, but more difficult.

He could --

She turned to him, nodded, and turned again, not waiting for the requisite dismissal. Her grasp on formality had not yet returned to full strength.

He could.

He reached for her arm, the one farthest from the door, before the other made it entirely to the electronic pad that controlled the entrance.

Pause.

"I understand that your Tuesday evenings are fully scheduled. However, I believe you are free on Wednesdays."

A beat.

"The second years are assigned to the comm lab tomorrow evening; you must be free."

The level of detail with which he could articulate her schedule was inappropriate, his second mind observed.

She nodded.

"It would be logical to continue this conversation later, when our schedules are less constrained."

A long, long pause hung between them. This hour had been constructed of pauses, it seemed. He leveled a gaze at her, wondering if she knew how intensely he wanted her to agree to what he could not quite bring himself to ask, despite knowing very sensibly that she would not. He actively suppressed the recent memory of her weight on his thighs and her lips against his, and focused, meditatively, on the impossibility of her acceptance of the offer he had not articulated aloud.

He found himself wishing that, in her effort to render herself presentable for the captain, she had, in fact, retied her ponytail.

And then, like mercy, manna, water to a dying man in a desert, she smiled.

* * *

_A/N: You know what's awesome? Reviews._


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Because your comments have been so kind, I release Chapter 3. Early! I'm moving next week, so there might be a mild slow-down in posting rate, but I'm still writing, I'm just packing at the same time. I said to mhgood that I had a mini panic attack when I realized exactly how long this thing is going to have to be to tell the whole story. What have I gotten myself into?? :-)

**Beta love:** Love to my beta, mhgood, without whom I would suffer too much self-doubt to actually post anything. And who catches all my stupid mistakes. Which are numerous.

**Disclaimer:** Star Trek does not belong to me. I'm just playing.

* * *

He had considered the necessary structure of this conversation over the course of the previous evening; he had forgone sleep in the interest of preparation. It was much easier to consider the shift in their situation when she was not in the room, and he found himself able to analyze the parameters of their circumstances with more care and precision once he was alone.

His first conclusion was that they should engage in a careful and serious conversation about what had happened and how they should proceed. There were a number of possibilities, and consequences associated with each, that had arisen in light of the previous day's events. He wished to enumerate them aloud, engage with her on their possible implications. The nature of their relationship had changed, and required a decision; any such determination had to be made jointly in order to be considered equitable.

He composed a list of relevant issues.

The Cadet walked through his office door 4 minutes and 37 seconds before the appointed hour and strode to his desk with her typical efficiency of movement. She did not smile as he looked up. She looked as though she had not taken as much sleep as she was accustomed to the previous night; she further looked as though she had tried to hide it.

Her hair was arranged differently today, the top part tied back, the rest flowing down her back in a single sheet. Not a strand lay out of place.

"Cadet."

"Commander."

"Let us walk."

His second conclusion had been that the conversation could not take place in his office. His office was a place of authority, and a space defined by his position in Starfleet and at the Academy itself. No matter the course that this conversation would take, defined by her responses to the subject, and her own contributions, it was important that her reactions were not unduly influenced by his authority and his power over her. The integrity of the situation depended on it.

They did not speak as they walked down the hallway to the elevators. He stepped aside to let her pass through doorways ahead of him, as was customary between human men and women, and she nodded in acknowledgment of his courtesy. She strode easily, with her usual confidence, though she was oddly silent. He had received no word from her yesterday after they agreed to a meeting time. He sensed that she was exercising self-control; he wondered, for the seventeenth time since he had first touched her, what she thought about the situation.

The turbolift was only partially full of academics, officers, and students, either engrossed in conversations between themselves or buried in PADDs or in their own thoughts. When it opened on the ground floor, he kept his hands clasped behind his back and strode purposefully beside her, eyes straight ahead. Looking at her elevated his heart rate, and the conversation he had prepared required utmost concentration.

She turned to him, a questioning look in her eye, as they descended the stairs from the front door of the academy, but he merely gave a brief nod and continued to walk across the lawn. He had not, in his planning, determined the exact ideal location for such a talk, but, as the light was good this time of year, and the weather innocuous, he headed left down the waterfront, away from campus.

The bench he had remembered was deserted, to his satisfaction--the next one was quite a bit farther away, and he wished to commence as soon as possible. He gestured for her to sit and she did so, gracefully; he descended similarly, and placed the PADD he had been carrying on his lap, where he could see it. He had prepared notes, though he had also committed the list to memory; the PADD was simultaneously to remind him and to provide a plausible explanation for onlookers who strayed from the academy. He did not dwell on the slight deception.

Instead, he paused a moment to collect his thoughts. She looked uncharacteristically uneasy; the coolness with which she had left yesterday, and with which she had entered today, had finally begun to lift. Her nerves were apparent on her forehead.

The wind rustled her hair; it flowed against her shoulders, like liquid.

They started to speak at exactly the same time.

"Commander, I-"

"Lieutenant. We-"

They both stopped. She breathed out, deeply. "Whew. I'm sorry. This situation is...strange."

The lightness, the teasing, the sarcasm, the smile that lit her eyes so frequently when they worked together, was dimmed --she looked lost, scanning his face.

He started again.

"I agree the situation is nonstandard."

He paused.

"I have several thoughts on the matter, though I do not know yours."

His third conclusion had acknowledged the fact that, in the course of evaluating a number of options in order to formulate a decision, particularly an important decision, one was highly benefited by a knowledge of all relevant facts. As she was to participate in this decision, he was therefore bound to share such facts with her. He could not assume that she had any foreknowledge of his own thoughts. He paused again, reflecting on exactly how difficult the sentence he was formulating would be to express aloud. He thought back to the day he told his father he had turned down the Science Academy. Then, he had anticipated disappointment; he had been correct.

He had no idea how she would react.

"I find your company enjoyable beyond what is acceptable between a commanding officer and a subordinate, or between an instructor and a cadet."

The woman next to him, who always had so much to say, somehow determined that this was the moment to remain silent. Humans were a frustratingly inconsistent race.

His layout of facts germane to the situation continued. "This is inappropriate. Starfleet Regulations 523 sections b and c and Academy protocol, particularly section 211, explicitly--"

"Please don't cite regulation at me, Spock; I know what it says."

He had been staring at the top of her head, he realized, avoiding her eyes; he corrected his gaze at the sound of his name. They had gone from dim to angry. She spoke before he could continue.

"You're saying you like me."

"Yes."

"You enjoy my company."

"Yes."

"More than in just a friendly way."

"Your phrasing is imprecise, but I follow your meaning. Yes."

"Are you attracted to me?"

He looked away; the reaction was involuntary.

"Again, your phrasing is--"

"You know what I mean."

"Yes."

"Yes, you know what I mean? Or yes, you are attracted to me?"

He forced himself to look her in the eyes again, swallowed. He had neglected to include this fact in his list of important information to share with her; this was evidently an oversight. "Yes, I understand your intended meaning, and yes, I find you physically appealing."

She looked away, then, and let out what seemed to be an unnaturally deep breath. Human lungs could hold, at capacity, a total of--it was not relevant.

"Why do you sigh?"

"I thought, all this time, that I was being silly..."

"I do not follow."

"I like you too. Way more than is...professionally responsible." Her words were guarded, and carefully chosen, but laden with emotion. He was grateful, for a moment, that humans were often so easy to read.

The silence between them hung heavily with their joint confessions. He found it fascinating that verbalizing a fact that was so plainly obvious to both parties, given the events of the previous afternoon, could have such a significant effect on the mood.

"I have considered several aspects of this situation. I believe we have a number of options."

She smiled now, finally, wryly. "I take it you've compiled a list?"

"Yes."

"Then...please. Share." She gestured, as though the list were a physical collection he could spread between them on the bench. He did not understand why she appeared amused, and mentally noted that he should find time to ask at a more appropriate juncture.

"The first, and, with high probability, most responsible option is for us to acknowledge these feelings between us and to suppress them. If necessary, we may terminate our working relationship--"

"Spock. Spock, listen." Her hand reached out to rest against his, on the bench, cool and tiny and inviting. A wave of emotion, of connection, washed over his brain, before he remembered to fight it. He closed his eyes and breathed in, imperceptibly. Her touch, simple as it was, tore at the edges of his control.

"Cadet, " he looked at her. "My apologies. Nyota, I merely wish to articulate our two primary options and their potential consequences as I have calculated them. I assure you that your thoughts on the matter are highly relevant to these calculations, but--"

"I'm sorry. Continue."

Continue he did.

"We may terminate our working relationship, and I will recommend you with enthusiasm to any other instructive fellow for the remainder of your tenure at the Academy. I would do so because your abilities are unparalleled, not because of my--" if she was listening carefully, she may have heard him stumble, ever so briefly "--affections for you."

This last sentence was included to head off what he calculated with 93.24% probability would be her likely response to such a suggestion.

"This option avoids several shortfalls offered by the alternative, which I shall enumerate next. However, in the event that you wish to continue spending time in my company, it presents a disadvantage."

She pressed her lips together as she considered this. "I wonder. What do you want?"

While he was growing accustomed to much about the human thought pattern, the human unwillingness to follow the linear progression of a rational sequence of thoughts remained challenging. He decided, quickly, that noting this fact would more than likely annoy her, more so than simply responding to the question at the appointed time, and continued without responding.

"The second option is to acknowledge these feelings, and act on them, and engage in an illicit and professionally dangerous romantic relationship."

She smiled, in a manner that appeared almost involuntary and let out a short breath. "Please go on."

"There are several reasons that this is the incorrect path to follow."

"Enlighten me."

"From a professional standpoint, as the subordinate, and as a female, and as a student, this is dangerous for your career, much more so than mine."

"Tell me, are all your objections professional?"

"Many, but not all. I wish to emphasize--"

"I know."

"Lieutenant--"

"Nyota."

"Nyota--"

"Listen. I'm not trying to dismiss you, and your concerns for my professional well-being are touching. But it's only a problem while I'm here, yes?"

"While protocol dictates otherwise, practice supports your claim."

"And it's only a problem here if people find out, right?"

A pause.

She was offering him a dangerous, dangerously tempting gift.

"This is true." He carried on, resolved to make his objections clear to her, to clarify the parameters. "I do not know your thoughts on a liaison that cannot be recognized by others. I do not make a habit of discussing my personal relationships with my acquaintances, but your habits may differ from my own. It is possible that you would find such an arrangement unsatisfying."

"That's up to me, though, right?"

"Yes. That is up to you."

"I can do it."

He moved on, looking away.

"I am not aware of your level of familiarity with Vulcan mating rituals. However--"

She surprised him, again. "You are engaged."

"Yes." This point aroused a deep-seated discomfort within him. He disliked even considering his intended bond-mate, upon whom he had not laid eyes in 15 years, with whom he had not communicated in 6. She had agreed with his father on the unsuitability of a life in Starfleet as compared to the Science Academy.

This woman, so different from his bond-mate, spoke again. "Does that bother you?"

"The nature of Vulcan mating is very different from human practice. I wish to emphasize--"

"Does it bother you?"

"In terms of--"

"You're not answering my question."

He was struggling; his hand tingled next to hers. He changed tack.

"Are you troubled by my attachment to another female?"

"Not a bit."

Why not? He could not bring himself to ask. It was inappropriate; it was none of his business. Perhaps she sensed his desperation; perhaps one day he could tell her why T'Pring was kept in a locked corner of his mind, tell her about his people, his culture. About the life of a Vulcan who was only half-Vulcan. The possibility was foreign, and heady.

Of all of the enumerated facts, the next was, by his estimation, the second most important. He let his gaze travel to the water and admired, for a moment, the sunlight off the bridge.

"I believe you will find me unsuitable as a romantic partner."

She did not respond to this. She glared, instead.

"I have never engaged in a romantic relationship with a human female. Vulcan emotional attachments are very different from that to which you are likely accustomed. Your people describe me as 'emotionally distant;' I am unable, constitutionally, culturally, to fulfill your human needs."

Constitutionally, or by choice? Did it matter? He remembered a conversation with his father, in his youth, after another entirely different sort of emotional indiscretion. He had been urged to make a choice.

He had turned down the Science Academy, in the end.

He turned back to face her, and she looked him in the eye, again, here. Her anger had been replaced by an emotion he could not immediately recognize. "You're patronizing me. I know what I'm getting into. _I know who you are_."

There was the promise, again.

"I am not demonstrative."

"I don't care."

He believed her.

The silence hung stretched out between them. She spoke first.

"I...you...this is...different, for me. This isn't, just..."

She sighed, and looked down. He gazed at her, experienced consternation. Her half-sentence had been remarkably inarticulate.

His list had almost ended, and they had not arrived at what was, perhaps, the most important question. She voiced it for him. "I want this. What do you want?"

His fourth conclusion had been that he wanted. He wanted to be able to spend time with her, speak with her, without noticing that time was passing. He wanted to speak with her about topics unrelated to phonology without contriving to structure the conversation appropriately such that they flowed naturally from the subjects of their work. He wanted to watch her smile without being mindful that she would notice his attention. He wanted to know what her hair felt like between his fingers.

He did not know how to tell her.

He looked around, observing that they were, in fact, quite alone, with twilight reaching out over the park. The students must be studying; if he were possessed of a superstitious nature, he might imagine that the world had aligned exactly to give him this moment of silence and peace alone with her. He felt her move more closely, and turned again. Very, very gently, she reached for him, leaning, and brought his chin up to meet hers, and chastely touched her lips to his own. He backed away as she did and watched her eyes open. He pressed his own lips together, relishing the thought that he might be permitted to do that again.

Somehow, they had come to an agreement. He wondered how it was that, whatever his resolve with her happened to be, she managed to unravel it.

"We must take care that no one discovers our relationship."

The word was unfamiliar, when used with this meaning.

"What should we do if anyone asks?"

"We should lie."

"I thought that Vulcans never lie." She was teasing him, now.

"It is considered morally advisable to avoid lying, but a lie to avoid greater harm or injustice is morally permissible."

She smiled and looked down again at her legs, which swung off the edge of the bench. Strange, that he had somehow entered a relationship of a romantic nature with this lovely human female. He believed, quite suddenly, that his mother would be proud of him, if he were to ever tell her. He did not know if his father would understand. It was not what had been planned for him.

What did one say, at this moment? Did all human relationships begin this way?

She picked up her hand and laid it on his directly, interlacing their fingers slightly, and beamed at him. The world spun. "I love this time of evening. The light reminds me of home..."

* * *

_A/N: Reviews are love..._


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Here we are! Sorry it took so long. Something about moving, new job, blah blah. I upped the rating because there is reference to sex in this chapter. Reference, mind, nothing even approaching explicit. Just warning you.

**Beta love:** mhgood rocks my socks.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything, I'm only playing.

* * *

They first made love the same day that a cadet named Kirk first failed the Kobayashi Maru.

Nyota, who was acquainted with Kirk, despite having entered the Academy a year before him, had somehow been contrived to participate in the simulation as communications officer. When Spock had asked her why her more junior classmate had requested her specifically, she had simply rolled her eyes and said "Please. Can we talk about..._anything_...else?" Spock had never met Kirk before, as the cadet majored in neither computer science nor linguistics, but his reputation, both intellectual and otherwise, preceded him. His name had been used between the faculty, sometimes in awe, often in exasperation. Even the custodial engineering supervisor, upon seeing who was undergoing the exam that morning, interrupted his reprogramming of the simulation supervision room's cleaning bot, stood from his work, stepped to the observation window, and said "Now _this_ I want to see..."

Spock watched the cadet enter the room in a manner that could only be described as swaggering, but turned back to his console on the start of the simulation. He had spent the days leading up to Kirk's examination adjusting the artificial intelligence of the simulated Klingon Warbirds. He calculated a low probability that Kirk would bring a new approach to bear on the problem, but, when time is abundant and reputational stakes are high, it is often advisable to take additional precautions. Cadet Kirk was particularly intelligent, despite what his behavioral record might indicate. Spock wanted to guarantee that the model would respond adequately in the event that Kirk did anything unexpected over the course of the simulation.

His preventative measures proved unnecessary. Cadet Kirk set a record for the shortest time spent in simulation --3 minutes, 34 seconds-- before the Klingons destroyed the civilian ship and turned their carefully programmed guns on the simulation vessel. Spock only quickly caught the look on the Cadet's face before turning to initiate the program's shut down sequence. He looked pensive.

Spock, on the other hand, welcomed the reprieve. There were cadets who stood off with the Klingons for hours, continuing well into the evening, engaging in time-consuming evasive maneuvers. A pilot-in-training by the name of Hikaru Sulu had persevered for eight hours before finally, and correctly, concluding that the situation was unwinnable and refusing point-blank to cross into the neutral zone. Such durations were to be expected across the normal distribution (a conclusion predicated on the hypothesis that test-taking followed a normal distribution; his sample size, at this point, allowed him to make this assumption with reasonably high confidence) but still made for rather less interesting uses of Spock's time. Long simulations could be informative, and often suggested additional improvements to his model. However, they also decreased the amount of evening time he could devote to leisure, of which he was not typically granted an overabundance. Today was a good day; he valued the gift that Kirk had unwittingly bestowed.

In his quarters, he anticipated her arrival. When they were around others, in class, preparing for lectures, passing in the hall, they deliberately betrayed little knowledge of one another. He had spoken to her in public that morning, in fact, before proctoring Kirk's exam, as she handed him the graded assignments for his phonology class with a respectful "Sir," and a nod.

"Cadet Uhura. You have finished this grading earlier than I had anticipated." This was for the benefit of the professor of xeno-religio classic texts, who was exiting the lecture hall before Advanced High Vulcan Phonemes.

"Yes, sir. I felt that a timely return of the assignment would assist the students in preparing for next week's exam."

"Your timeliness is evidence of your work ethic." This was a compliment from him, though humans did not always recognize it as such. "I will return these after class. Dismissed."

She turned on her heel and returned to her seat at the rear of the auditorium. He did not watch her go. It occurred to him, as he turned to the lectern to prepare the holos of the glottal configurations they were to cover that day, that an astute observer would have unequivocally noticed a change in their behavior since their conversation on the edge of the Bay, five months previous. Prior to the establishment of their formal relationship, a simple exchange such as the one in which they had just engaged (which had taken, by his estimate, 12.7 seconds) would have taken quite a bit more time (35 seconds, perhaps?). She would have lingered, he may have made a more extensive comment on her time management, sleep habits, teased. Their hands may have brushed over the assignments. It was only once they were involved romantically that such additional interactions ceased altogether. She was considerably less demonstrative now that they were involved, and he similarly dampened his (considerably less apparent) reactions to her. It was as though she were a different person entirely in public; they kept their two halves carefully separated.

The private half of Nyota Uhura now smiled on entering his quarters, broadly, approached his position at the table, laid her hands gently on his shoulders, from behind, and kissed the top of his head. A mild tension in his shoulders loosened; his posture relaxed imperceptibly. "I picked up some dinner. I hope you don't mind, I wanted to stay in tonight and was too lazy to get proper groceries."

"I will eat whatever pleases you."

"You always say that."

"I have never said it when it was not true."

She laughed, then, took her hands from his back, and pulled out the seat next to him at the table. "How was your day? It's nice to see you."

"I believe you observed the activities that occupied the majority of my day."

"Yes, but I imagine the view is different from where you sat; I had to spend most of it keeping my cleavage from the view of Cadet Jones."

"The Cadet assigned to the flight control simulator?"

"The very one. You wouldn't happen to have the power to expel him, would you?"

"As I have mentioned several times, in times of peace, 'Instructor' does not connote any powers not typically invested in the average civilian professor, even with an officer title attached."

Their banter was easy. Her company was easy. There was much about human relations, human affection, human romance, human intimacy (much about intimacy) that still eluded his understanding, but when she stood in the room and rested her hands against him and teased him about his day, he thought that there was nothing simpler in the world than committing himself to spending every moment in her company.

They settled down to dinner in a manner that was becoming habitual. They did not dine together every evening--neither of their schedules permitted it--but they found time several days a week. He watched her twirl her noodles as he speared his vegetables. She looked tired; her semester schedule was aggressive. He had raised an eyebrow when she first proposed this particular courseload, but he knew her well enough to understand that, with high probability, she would not heed his warnings about the limits of human endurance.

Their conversation continued.

"It is unfortunate that the simulation pilot behaved inappropriately towards you. I hope that you did not feel uncomfortable."

"Well, I am particular about my sources of inappropriate attention. I just set my sights a little higher..."

At this he just about smiled.

"Besides, he's a sight better than Kirk."

"Yes, the failing Cadet himself. You are acquainted with him."

At this, she did smile, and shook her head, customary ponytail shimmering behind her. "Yes. Yes, I am acquainted with Cadet Kirk. You know, I met him in Iowa, of all places?"

He had been to Iowa once, before, at the conclusion of his first tour, to consult on the computer systems for the new flagship. The _Enterprise_. The visit had been brief, however; he remembered only broad expanses, sunlight, dust.

"I have been to Iowa."

"I was out on a recruiting run at the end of first year. We went to that bar down by the dock, where Starfleet always goes, you know?"

"I am not familiar with that particular place of business, but I understand which type of establishment you are referencing." He paused, considering, calculating. "You were in Iowa at the time that the outer hull of the _Enterprise_ was fully consolidated."

At this, her smile turned more inward, though she did not immediately respond. He paused for a courteous moment before continuing.

"I visited a year or so before, to consult on the computer systems. I subsequently received my posting to the Academy."

"...you didn't plan to teach?"

"I am assigned to the _Enterprise_, but given the now 52-month delay in construction on the new fleet, it was thought that I required a more permanent interim posting. I suggested an assignment to the Academy. I enjoy teaching. It exposes one to an unremitting flow of of novel ideas and insights."

She spoke earnestly, now "There is nothing, nothing in the universe that I want more than a posting to the _Enterprise_."

She paused. She shone.

"Seriously. Nothing. I dream of the _Enterprise_. I fantasize about the _Enterprise_. I sing about the _Enterprise_. I..."

She trailed off here, looking a little sheepish at her sudden declaration of love for an unfinished, and, despite his considerable expertise, inanimate starship.

They had discussed professional goals in the abstract over previous dinners. Unlike him, she had planned to join Starfleet from an early age. She hoped for a long-term deep-space research assignment upon graduation, but she had never yet declared with such fervor a preference for a particular ship. He knew that humans were given to particular emotional attachments, but had yet to fully analyze or predict their origins. He enjoyed, for a brief instant, the way this inexplicable emotion made her eyes sparkle.

"You have demonstrated exceptional aural sensitivity and an unparalleled ability to identify sonic anomalies in subspace transmission tests. It is likely you will receive a posting to whichever ship you desire. What about the _Enterprise_ inspires such strong sentiments?"

"It should be finished right as I graduate..."

She launched into an account of the particulars of the _Enterprise_'s state-of-the-art sounding board and communications matrix, and the resolution with which the new equipment might render aural subspace transmissions. He was familiar with these details, but she spoke of them with such animation that he did not interrupt; rather, he enjoyed the sight and sounds of her excitement. Focusing properly on her hands as they emphasized and articulated admitted a mental state that was almost meditative. She referenced the additional distances the _Enterprise_ could reach as compared to its predecessors in exploratory spacecraft. She alluded to, perhaps rather more briefly than she might have, the prestige associated with such a posting.

He himself did not especially feel a desire to serve aboard one ship or the other; all starships found utility in a science officer skilled in computational software; all starships had systems that presented interesting challenges, and most were on missions that presented new challenges and new civilizations. New planets. It was a mark of distinction to be assigned to the flagship, as he was, a testament to his skill, and he understood and acknowledged the honor. He did not, as she did, long for either recognition or adventure, merely new and interesting puzzles and a good use for his unique cross-species insights. He realized, however, that her passion was an unmistakable part of her humanity and her personality. It was an aspect of her personality that he appreciated, even though he would never himself express a desire of any variety with such fervor.

Not that he did not, himself, feel such desires, but it was not in his nature to express them as such. He studied her across the table, the way the lights hit the structure of her face and lit up her eyes, so much more expressive than those of his people. The way her smile made the air between them warm. She was a very attractive woman, he would often admit to himself, and moved in ways that were lithe and efficient and utterly distracting.

They had not yet engaged in physical intercourse in the manner of a traditional romantic human relationship. The idea of desire, and of committing to it, was quite foreign to him. He had found his first week on Earth less disorienting than his first week with her. But he could not deny that she was attractive, beautiful. He had accepted that physicality would be a component of their affections for one another, as was standard in any human (and even Vulcan, if less obviously so) relationships, but he had not yet charted his own course through the complicated matrix of emotions surrounding his attraction to her. He had yet to establish the most appropriate mechanism for acting on them. He was not sure he could do so and maintain his fragile grip on his sanity.

She broke into his thoughts. "I'm sorry, I'm telling you things you already know."

He followed her to the couch. She sank gracefully, wine glass in hand, as she did almost every evening they spent together, so they could continue their conversations in a more comfortable setting. Here, at his simple living room table, they might play tri-dimensional chess, or listen to a recording she had brought, or simply talk about the divergent nature of the two dialects of the Naran-gi of Tromula 9, or about her childhood in Nairobi, or the climatic similarities between her homeworld and his. Here, he allowed himself to indulge his affection for and attraction to her, and she had learned, slowly, that she was permitted to lean against him, that if she put her head there, he might be convinced to lay his arm across hers. That she could play with his fingers, and though he said nothing, the contented tone of his voice would indicate that he enjoyed it.

Touch was uncommon on Vulcan; Vulcans, even in their emotional state, do not crave it as humans do. He had not realized how comforting it could be.

And often, when she turned to him, he might graze his hands along her jaw and lean in to kiss her, as he was now allowed to do, and savor the sensation, and wonder that humans did not spend all their time so engaged.

Today he kissed her in his way, controlled, exploring, reminding himself that, half-human or no, restraint is an admirable quality and his that emotions, indulging them though he may be, required regulation.

They had concluded their discussion of the proper introductory curriculum for cadets potentially interested in communications -- she believed that the current approach contained insufficient breadth -- when he thought back to their dinner conversation.

"Why did you go to a bar whilst in Iowa on a recruiting tour? Were you not on duty?"

"We were, yes...Pike let us go, though in the end he regretted it, what with the multi-man fight Kirk managed to start."

"You went to a bar. To what purpose?"

"You've never been?"

"Such establishments do not exist on Vulcan; I never felt the compulsion as a student. Socializing with humans outside of such environments is sufficiently fascinating."

Perhaps it was an oversight, in retrospect. Coming to Earth had been an explosion of sensations, of people, of experiences.

"Well, you know, you go, you dance."

He imagined her in such a place, hips moving, as human hips do. Smiling, laughing. Talking over loud music, with new friends.

"There is music?"

"It's loud and Terran, you wouldn't like it."

He protested, though the tone of his voice did not change. "There are a number of Terran musical styles I enjoy."

She continued, as she often did, with a look he had come to recognize as teasing. "You get some drinks, you talk with people. You know, let your hair down."

Something about her phrasing struck him. Her hair was always pulled back in some way or another. It was likely several centimeters longer than was within regulation; she kept it out of the way to perform her duties. However, she did not often adopt the top knot so commonly adopted by on-duty female members of Starfleet. He made a mental note to ask why, if the appropriate conversational moment arose.

"'Let your hair down'?"

"How many years have you been on this planet, and you still don't know all of our figures of speech?"

This was phrased, as he had learned over several months in her company, in a manner that was considered flirtatious.

"I am familiar with the turn of phrase. I do not believe I have ever heard it used in context. I am struck by its similarity to the Vulcan phrase--_isachya sharush ask'ric_--meaning, roughly, to uncover one's hair--"

This definition was tragically inexact, missing the implications of the verb _sharush_, which connoted the emotional opening up of one being to another, but the idea of her hair being uncovered combined with his belief that her own knowledge of his paternal tongue would render its poetics more adequately than his translation caused him to overlook his own imprecision.

He continued, "-- a parallel I did not recognize when studying it in its textbook form."

"That's what I get for teasing you. I've never heard that one."

"Vulcan does not have bars. The phrase is typically employed in more intimate contexts, always in the second-person feminine singular."

"I see." Her voice had gone more contemplative. She seemed to have discerned his meaning. Humans were more emotional than Vulcans, to be true, but they periodically possessed an understanding of nuance that would give pause to even the most exacting practitioners of Vulcan etiquette. He wondered how they had arrived on this subject, entirely without planning. He suspected that the weight of her against his chest had had unpredictable effects upon his train of thought.

She sat up and looked at him; he resisted to urge to pull her back down against him, to feel her weight. "Hair is _be'pulva_ in Vulcan, yes?" She used the morphologically correct term for _intimate_ _aspect_. Her voice had dropped a register.

"Yes."

"There are Terran cultures where the female's hair must always be covered, as a barrier to temptation, or as a supplication to God."

"Modesty is valued on Vulcan, though the female head coverings is considered more symbolic than ritualistically necessary, as in the cultures you reference."

She trailed her fingers against his forearm, seeming not to think about it, and his eyes closed very slightly in response.

"So, 'letting your hair down on Vulcan' is...sexual."

He swallowed, hard, at the look she was quite suddenly giving him, straight and brazen.

"Yes."

"Wouldn't Kirk have liked that, huh?" She was almost talking to herself. She reached up with her other hand, not the one that was trailing circles over his arm, and grabbed hold of the elastic that held her ponytail in place. The moment in which she pulled the elastic from her hair seemed to last for generations, though he knew, logically, that time passed as normal. One human woman did not have the power to move quickly enough to warp or slow the speed of time.

Her hair came out, tumultuous, its natural wave manifesting over her shoulders, an ocean, and surrounded her face with a softness he had yet to see in her.

She seemed to sense that he was at a loss for words--perhaps the part of her personality he appreciated the most was her understated understanding of his limitations--but he reached for her jaw and the hem of her shirt and she seemed to understand, standing up after he kissed her and taking his hand.

There was much about her that he was finding comfortable. Routine, even. Enjoyable but not overwhelming. Their relationship, though not logical from the start, had become so, in that she fit into the sense of his day and his life, and in doing so allowed him some measure of control over his feelings for her. Here, he was once again on unfamiliar ground. What would she like? What did one customarily say in this situation? Was it logical to give in to a desire for physical pleasure? Over the course of their relationship, he had attempted to temper this sentiment in the same way that he attempted to temper all sentiments. To like her without being overwhelmed. To want her without being overcome.

Was it logical to give in to a desire for her company in the first place? He had known, after all, what a relationship with a human woman entailed. Here she was. And he wanted her. And she appeared to share the sentiment.

However, it was necessary in human society to verify that she felt the same way, that she was amenable to further physical contact, before it was initiated. He wondered how she so repeatedly led him into such unfamiliar situations. He pulled away, looked her in the eyes, and asked, in a way he would himself condemn under normal circumstances--spending so much time with her made him behave more like a human, much as he was loathe to admit it--"Nyota?"

She smiled, shushed him, tugged him from the couch towards his bedroom, showed him the way.

* * *

_A/N: I will allow your imaginations to fill in the blanks._


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **Yeesh, this chapter was hard to write. Next chapter we enter movie-land!

**Beta love: **I love my beta, mhgood.

**Disclaimer: **Star Trek and its characters to not belong to me, and I am not making money off of this business. I'm just having fun.

* * *

Cadet Kirk took quite a bit more time to fail the Kobayashi Maru the second time than he did the first. His style changed dramatically as well. The first time, he had rushed into the simulation, oversure and overbearing, firing out clipped orders and ostentatiously flirting with half his simulation crew. The second time, he took a much more cautious approach, analyzing all possibilities, exploring diplomatic advances, and even endeavoring a bold secretive maneuver involving the transport shuttle and several adjacent moons. Whereas his first pass through the exam seemed to fit the personality that went with his reputation--brash, arrogant, ready for a fight, and perhaps eager to prove his strength, Spock observed in retrospect--this pass involved a much more analytical approach to the problem. His intelligence was manifest, though it remained clear that the point of the exercise was entirely lost on him.

Spock had been less strongly opposed to Kirk's repeat of the exam than the other principal proctors of the Kobayashi Maru. The administrative proctor flatly balked at the idea of allowing Kirk to retry, arguing that Kirk had clearly missed the point: everybody failed. Spock countered, with his usual calm, that the fact that Kirk had missed the point was precisely the reason he should be permitted to retry. In fact, Kirk's insistence somewhat impressed the older officer. He surmised, and he had been proven correct, that Kirk was simply implementing a breadth-first traversal of all possible solutions to the exam before concluding that it could not be passed. This potentially betrayed intellectual depth, if Kirk realized the futility of victory after a second attempt.

This did not seem likely, as the hours progressed. Kirk was less brash this time and appeared to the outward observer to be much more focused, but still did not appear to accept or even realize that the situation was impossible. He sank into what appeared to be a fouler and fouler mood as the hours passed and the stalemate progressed. His classmates around him struggled not to wilt under the strain as Kirk attempted to hold his command together, and, as the Klingons turned their guns to the command deck in the 7th hour of examination, he simply ended his series of commands (which had become terse, but not desperate, like those of so many other takers of the Maru), turned in his captain's chair, and walked silently out the door, skipping past the evaluation period entirely. The rest of the room took a sigh of relief that was, by Spock's estimation, 87.4% synchronized.

Although he recognized the breach in protocol demonstrated by Kirk's sudden departure and noted that the cadet should likely be reprimanded, Spock could not find it in himself to mind, particularly, that he would not be required to pass an additional hour outlining an initial analysis of the cadet's performance. A new message containing the latest profiles from the _Enterprise_'s command system had arrived that morning, requiring him to look over the performance numbers and make suggestions for the next battery of tests against the system, and he had a midterm to design for his intermediate algorithms course the following week. It would be a late night, as a human might say. Betraying no sign of his mental fatigue, he rose from his computer, initiated the shutdown sequence, and walked to the door, carefully minding the lock behind him.

She was at the table in his quarters when he arrived, deeply engrossed in the work in front of her. She had not been present at Kirk's second attempt at the Kobayashi Maru; Spock wondered if she had not been requested, or if she had managed to avoid the duty by some other means. There was tension in her shoulders, her ponytail had slipped twelve degrees to the right, and she only barely greeted him as he walked in the door. He knew her, and he knew humans, well enough to know that these were signs that she was unhappy. Vulcans could, and did, experience bad moods, but they were well-trained to avoid displaying that fact to others. While this generally provided for a more harmonious society, and allowed the Vulcan people to avoid the explosive outbursts that had so marred their pre-Surak history, it did render interpersonal relationships a shade more complicated. Humans were convenient in the ways that they wore their emotions so openly; in this respect, if no others, he appreciated their volatility.

"You are behaving in a manner that indicates that you are troubled."

She let out a snorting noise, similar to the one his mother would sometimes, albeit infrequently, make, when frustrated or disgusted. She blinked once, long. "Let's just say I had a bad day."

"It has been observed that humans find a that discussion of negative circumstances can relieve negative emotions surrounding them."

She closed her eyes and put her head in her hands. He thought that she might enjoy physical contact, which humans, and Nyota as well, by his observations, sometimes found beneficial in the relief of unhappiness. He stepped up behind her and lay his hands on her shoulders. They were cool and solid beneath his touch.

The words came out in a rush as she rubbed the heels of her hands into her eyes. "Jones was poking around, again, got a little forward, and then there's this exam that's just been moved, and the comments on my thesis draft came back, and I do _wish_ that Lieutenant Forretnal would return my messages because without her signatures I can't finalize my plans for break..."

"Do you require additional assistance or comfort?"

She seemed to almost smile at this, but not with real pleasure. She spoke slowly. "No, thank you." A beat. He found her difficult to read this evening; it was troublesome. "Have you eaten?"

Abrupt changes in subject were a habit of a number of races outside Vulcan, not just human. It was astonishing how many practices, often quite subtle, to which one had to become accustomed when one joined Starfleet. The Science Academy, for all its academic rigor, would, in many ways, have been far less mentally disruptive.

He decided, in light of her avoidance of the subject at hand and his lack of information about her mood, to simply answer the question. "Instructor Pershing ordered food for the staff in the supervising room of the Kobayashi Maru approximately 4 hours into this afternoon's simulation."

She sighed. "I guess I'll order something in a bit, though I'm not very hungry." She trailed off, then appeared to rally. "I am assuming Kirk didn't pass this time, either."

"Your assumption is correct."

"I don't understand the point of that thing, to be honest."

This comment was unexpected. She had quite accurately surmised the lesson behind the exam very quickly after she first assisted in its administration. It had been the first time she had showed up in his office unannounced, in fact--she had knocked and entered almost simultaneously, a rare early breach of protocol, and, when he had looked up from his desk, she had said, rushed, breathless "It can't be won, can it?"

It had been the first time she had surprised him.

"The principle lesson of the Kobayashi Maru is--"

"No, I get it. I'm sorry. I just--you said we could have dinner tonight."

Considering the issue further, he believed that he was actually growing more accustomed to such subject changes; spending so much additional time with a human was instructive. He believed it was improving his reaction time in general, though he struggled to consider each fact in his day with the necessary depth, given that his focus so often had to shift.

He considered this new conversational course. They seemed to be near dangerous territory; she was acting irrationally, potentially betraying an uncharacteristic emotional frailty. He therefore chose his words carefully, but truthfully. "I believe your phrasing is inaccurate, Nyota."

"Oh, fine, you didn't say that exactly, because heaven forbid you actually commit to anything, but you--"

"I said that I may be available for dinner at the conclusion of the Kobayashi Maru exam. My word choice reflected the unclear nature of the length of my commitment this afternoon. My comment was not to be taken as a guarantee. As ever, if you have other plans--"

"Oh, if I have other plans! I don't want other plans! I'd rather see you! And you're telling me that you did not, in seven and a half hours, have a moment to send me a message from your console informing me of Kirk's lack of progress?"

This was not an unreasonable suggestion. It had not occurred to him that she would require additional knowledge. However, it remained unclear what exactly was upsetting her so obviously. Her first comment about her day had been about Jones, but she had not raised her voice until she began discussing his dinner availability. She was not typically given to such strong irrationality, by his observation, and certainly never in his presence. Humans, with their synaptic complexities, emotional intricacies, and infrequent meditation practices, could often misjudge the sources of their unhappiness. She might be misprojecting her anger at Jones and Forretnal onto him. If this were the case, his acquiescence on the subject of contacting her when he had not made a firm commitment would not, in the long run, improve her emotional balance.

"Are you certain that you are upset at my behavior?"

She almost jumped, looking up at him in a manner that could only be described as incredulous. "Do I sound as though I'm not upset with you? Or that I'm upset with someone else?"

"I apologize for my vague query. To clarify, are you certain that you are not upset about the other inconveniences you experienced over the course of your day--"

"You think I'm taking my bad day out on you?" Her eyes had gone wide.

"I am merely attempting to gather the requisite information--"

"To tell me how I really feel." She snorted at this, again. "That's rich, thank you. Please can stop patronizing me, Spock. I know how I really feel."

This was a fascinating statement. Vulcans did not often experience ambiguity of emotion--their problem related to an excess of uncontrollable emotion, not an inability to distinguish between them. Humans, in addition to exhibiting an inability to reign in strong feeling, a problem to which he himself fell victim far more often than other members of his paternal race, suffered an ambiguity that most Vulcans would find incomprehensible. He found her hard to talk to, now.

She squinted at him. "...you don't believe me?"

He did not know. To avoid an untruth, he simply asked a question. "Why are you troubled by my lack of message when I did not commit to a dinner engagement?"

She shrugged, and looked oddly small as she turned away. "It's...inconvenient. You know, I have other things to do."

"You planned to work here regardless of my presence, given your exams next week."

"Why are you so quick to dismiss me? Oh for crying out loud, Spock, all I want is a little recognition that I am an individual in your life who is planning at least partially around you and around whom you sometimes plan yourself and it would be at least considerate of you to, I don't know...acknowledge that."

Acknowledgement? He turned her statements around in his brain. Was it possible that she felt as though he did not care for her or consider her needs or think about her over the course of his day? Admittedly she could not know his thoughts, as she did not share them, but the idea that she might not know how much of his mental time she occupied was novel.

He was, however, hopelessly unprepared on the subject of how to express to her that he understood her unstated second meaning and that she had misunderstood. He observed that he was standing above her, hands just above her shoulders, now, staring at the top of her head, not speaking, which would likely be considered strange by a human participant in any other conversation. Perhaps she noted the pause. She was unlikely to comment on it, but she was not behaving as she usually did this evening.

In the end she saved him by speaking first, before he formulated a rational and truthful response to her outburst. She was looking at her hands on the table now, and not at him. Her voice was quieter. He recognized an individual enforcing emotional calm. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't...freak out at you. Listen." She took a breath. It was shaky on release.

He furrowed his brows slightly, concerned, and walked around the table to her side. He wished to comfort her and thought of her touch, when they sat together, not arguing about statements he had not made. He wondered if a human male might actually know what to say, or if a human male would have been involved in such a conversation in the first place. Perhaps it would occur to a human that his imprecise phrasing could suggest an unintended level of commitment with requisite emotional consequences for the other party.

Instead of voicing his confusion, he sat beside her and laid his hand on hers, without relaxing his posture. Slowly, deliberately, he threaded their fingers together. He rubbed his thumb along hers. He always enjoyed the sensation from her; he hoped she found comfort in it.

She looked at his face, seeming surprised.

"I understand that you're busy and that this whole thing is...nonstandard. And I don't mind that our schedules don't always work out. I mean, I mind, but, you know, I'm not mad about that; I'm just--if you say you might be free and Commander Pershing brings take out to the exam room, could you just shoot me a quick message?"

Her request was extremely specific. She likely intended a broader interpretation. She desired additional advance knowledge of his availability. This request was not unreasonable. At the very least, it would not be difficult to do. He filed away the request. "I will attempt to fulfill that request to the best of my abilities."

"Thank you. That's all I want. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to waste the evening by fighting; it's already so late..." She smiled, pushing through.

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding, and the human inside of him wished he knew the words to tell her that her smile was, by far and away, the best part of his life.

"Come, tell me about your day, before we get back to work. What the hell took him so long?"

Several hours later, their limbs tangled together and with the sheets, it was quite apparent that she had forgiven him. He was grateful.

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Here we are. I can't believe we're at Chapter 6 already. I want to thank all the reviewers for your very kind comments - I'm sorry I don't have time to respond to them all individually like I should, but I do read them all, and all reviews are wonderful reviews and keep an FF author happy and typing. Just sayin'.

**Disclaimer:** Star Trek does not belong to me. I did borrow some of the dialogue from the movie's Kobayashi Maru scene, with much respect. I'm not making any money off of anything.

**Beta love:** mhgood is my beta, and if I could write a song, I would write her a song.

* * *

There was a point to the Kobayashi Maru, and Cadet Kirk was missing it. This was evidenced by his insistence on taking it a third time. This had required a special appeal and a meeting of the Cadet training board. Even Spock had questioned the logic behind allowing such a use of instructor time and academy resources, and he had raised his eyebrows rather higher than usual when the special request to allow it had come down from no less than Pike. What grudging respect Kirk had earned with his second attempt had been quickly overridden by the arrogance and ignorance made manifest with his insistence on a third.

And moreover, the instructor time spent was wasteful enough, but the students themselves were also involved--Nyota had had to leave his quarters early yesterday afternoon once she received word of her presence at the exam, as its administration forced her to reschedule her planned morning and afternoon in the comm lab. Evidently she had been especially requested, again. This time, she agreed to join without formal complaint, smiling wryly and saying that it would certainly ease the issue of scheduling dinner afterwards.

This did not stop her from registering _informal_ complaints on the subject of the exam-taker himself, however. If possible, she felt even more strongly about the futility of this exercise than Spock did. Responding to the message, confirming her presence, she rolled her eyes.

"Gods, I hate him."

Free expressions of strong emotion were always interesting. "Why?"

"Profound, misplaced arrogance, mostly. He just thinks he's so...hot? I guess? Brilliant? I don't know. He has this fascination with learning my first name that he thinks is endearing. It's actually just annoying."

"...your first name?" His right eyebrow raised with the question.

She had left it at that.

Watching the cadet fail a third time held little interest; he concluded that his time was better spent watching the performance readouts on the monitor console in the back of the room, in order to facilitate his current goal of optimizing memory usage. He listened with less active attention than usual, hoping, idly, that whatever plan the arrogant command-hopeful had concocted for this, his third attempt, would at least be brief.

He allowed Nyota's voice to momentarily distract him from the moving readouts in front of him.

"We are receiving a distress signal from the USS _Kobayashi Maru_. The ship has lost power and is stranded. Starfleet Command has ordered us to rescue them."

She spoke in a tone that he recognized as not quite what humans would call sarcastic, but certainly mocking. He imagined her, turning wide-eyed to Kirk, delivering her line, and he could see, in his mind's eye, the look on her face. The vision pleased him.

Kirk's response did not. "Starfleet Command has ordered us to rescue them ..._Captain_."

If that cadet were ever promoted to captain, Spock decided, he would be forced to quit Starfleet. It would only be logical: he would not fit in an organization in which such an individual held a position of such power.

He reached to his right and tweaked, very slightly, the knob that controlled the simulation's speed. The cadet knew what was coming, having exhausted much of the space of the exam on his previous two attempts. There was no evident need to replay the events in the realtime the simulation typically called for and waste everyone's afternoon.

Someone else spoke. The voice was male, human. It sounded very slightly irritated. "Two Klingon warbirds have entered the Neutral Zone and are locking weapons on us."

"That's okay."

The incredulity inspired by this comment was audible. "'That's okay'?"

"Yeah, don't worry about it."

At least Kirk's classmates also understood the pointlessness of this exercise. He did not know who had spoken, but was pleased that someone in the academy besides his very sensible girlfriend--a word that rolled through his brain more slowly than the others, every time he thought it-- saw through Kirk's antics.

There were no antics on Vulcan; he was grateful for the Federation Standard vocabulary word. It was appropriate.

Spock had more carefully examined the cadet's records the evening before. It was true that, while behaviorally deficient and tremendously impulsive, cadet Kirk had a number of strengths, notably survival strategies, tactical analysis, and hand-to-hand combat. It was unfortunate that he could not be tracked into ground forces or infantry, at this point. His skills were wasted in the air, and in command training.

"Three more Klingon warbirds decloaking and locking onto our ship. I don't suppose this is a problem either."

"They're firing, Captain." Someone else, another male. Likely the tactical officer, whose voice perhaps sounded familiar. Was he a former student? If Spock were in the habit of cringing, the tactical officer's use of the honorific would have brought it out.

It was the next exchange, however, that piqued his suspicion. Kirk, finally, gave an order. "Alert Medical Bay to receive all crew members from the damaged ship."

"And how do you expect us to rescue them when we're surrounded by Klingons, Captain?"

Bless Nyota and her miraculous grasp of polite irony.

"Alert Medical."

There was something very slightly off about the cadet's arrogance. In previous administrations of this exam, Kirk had been brash, cocky, and he had clearly come with a plan. But he had not been nonchalant. Spock suspected, in a way that his teachers on Vulcan would have called illogical and his mother would call instinctual, that Kirk still had a plan, but that it did not involve tactical maneuvers.

He turned from the performance readouts to the primary simulation console, opened a terminal, and begin to enter his own commands. The conversation continued below him.

The first male voice continued. "Our ship's being hit. Shields are at sixty percent."

The Klingon's phasers seemed to have had a slightly stronger effect than usual. Perhaps accelerating the timeline affected the artificial universe's physics; Spock would have to investigate at some later time.

"I understand."

The simulation control officer to Spock's right appeared, inexplicably, bewildered. "Is he not taking the simulation seriously?" Some days, the minds of individuals of alien races were beautiful, boundless containers of interesting insights and new perspectives. Some days, any mind but a Vulcan mind seemed incomprehensibly simple. He would have to meditate on this particular manifestation of relativity when he returned to his quarters. Spock did not respond.

The voices from the simulation room continued; all but the "captain" sounded increasingly exasperated. The casualness of the exchange indicated either that the current speaker knew Kirk well, that morale was fading, or that the cadet in question required a reprimand on the subject of protocol for communicating with a superior officer. Even a simulation officer.

"Well, should we--oh, I dunno--fire back?"

Kirk was not helping with the illusion. "Naw."

"Of course not."

Was someone chewing? Spock refused to dignify the noise with a look. Instead, he scrolled through he debug log, scanning, methodically but quickly, for something, anything, out of place.

This activity was cut short by a sudden, unannounced reboot; the console flickered, went black, and reset. Spock noted the speed with which the settings were recovered; his engineering skills were not wasted on this particular program. But something was clearly awry; beside him, the performance readout blinked in protest.

Kirk responded at the same time that Spock's screen cleared. "Hmm. Arm photons, prepare to fire on the Klingon warbirds."

"Jim, their shields are still up!"

The stupidity of this statement caused Spock to mentally overlook the use of the "superior officer's" first name. Without looking, he knew that the shields were not still up. The cadet knew this too; one could hear the enjoyment in his voice as he chewed. From the crunching, Spock surmised that he was eating an apple.

"Are they?"

"No....They're not."

"Fire on all enemy ships. One photon each should do it. No sense in wasting ammunition."

In an effort to arrive at possibly positive aspects of the student's personality, Spock credited his--admittedly ironic--preservation of resources. This was rather overshadowed, however, by a pronounced attempt to suppress the stream of impolite Vulcan words that flowed through his mind. He initiated a download sequence of a snapshot of the Kobayashi Maru program binary to a PADD for ease of transport and analysis.

The tactical officer sounded amused. "Aye, sir. Target locked and acquired on all warbirds. Firing."

Spock heard, but did not see, the explosions of the warbirds. He turned to a third console to download every analysis program he could think of. He reflected on the skill that would have been required to reprogram the simulation in the 12 hours between the scheduling of the exam yesterday evening and its administration this morning. Perhaps Kirk was too intelligent for grunt work.

This did not render him suitable for an officer position.

"All targets destroyed, sir."

"Begin rescue of the stranded crew. _So_--"

The speaker, James Kirk, paused dramatically. Although he was engaging a powerful focusing exercise to block out the activity in the room around him and below, Spock could not possibly miss the cocky tone of the examinee's voice.

"We've managed to eliminate all enemy ships, no one on board was injured, and the successful rescue of the _Kobayashi Maru_ crew is... underway."

Spock blinked, slowly, as Nyota often did, in an effort to control his irritation, before it got the best of him. He would have stayed there for the full 4 minutes required by his particular meditation practice, to carefully regain full control of his emotions, but the bridge controller behind him interrupted.

"How the hell did he beat your test?"

By implanting a subroutine somewhere. Clearly. But Spock did not know where, or when or _how_.

"I do not know."

But he would find out. Hopefully before dinner.

* * *

_A/N: I think his girlfriend is beginning to have an effect on him, no? :-)_


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Chapter 7! This chapter was tricky, but also longer than the last one, so I hope you enjoy it.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Star Trek, Spock, Kirk, Uhura, anyone, or anything related to it. I borrowed dialogue from the movie's "Kirk Cheated" scene.

* * *

It was Nyota who helped him find the injected code. After automatically reverse-engineering the binary and running several scans and differencing algorithms on the generated code, to no effect, Spock was attempting to determine the most efficient algorithm to use to search the doctored program manually when she arrived in his quarters with an afternoon tea prepared. He had not asked for it, and was especially grateful for her thoughtfulness. The prospect of a manually-directed code search was mentally straining. They had not discussed his efforts, but she, like everyone involved (and most who were not, at this point, several hours later; news spread at the Academy at a surprisingly rapid rate, given the limitations of the speed of sound), knew that Kirk had not passed the Kobayashi Maru by any honest mechanism. She therefore intuited his purpose fairly quickly.

She was not a computing scientist and had little formal training, but, like all cadets, had passed the introductory programming course. Unlike many, she had done so with remarkably high marks. She set the tea to his side, leaned against his back, hands resting gently on his shoulders, and followed his gaze to the console in his quarters. He had downloaded the data from the control room PADDs. Despite the reduction in mobility this entailed, he often found that working at the larger screen was beneficial to his efficiency.

"No luck yet?"

"If by your query you are inquiring as to whether I have located the mechanism by which Cadet Kirk reprogrammed the system, the answer is no."

He sensed that she was not really looking at the monitor, now, more at the top of his head. While they were clearly in violation of regulations, it was still inappropriate for a cadet to have access to exam source code, and she usually avoided inspecting any such material when she came into contact with it in his quarters. He had not asked her about this behavior, but it was sufficiently marked that he had not had to. He appreciated her decorum.

"I'm surprised it's so hard to find."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, it's pretty clear that he cheated, right? It's not like he's trying to hide it." He, too, looked away from the screen, glancing up to her face as she ran her fingers through his hair, lightly. "I would have expected him to sign it." She smiled, joking to no one in particular. "Have you done a find-all on 'Captain Kirk'?"

And there it was. The decompiled binary did not include the comments on the injected source, but it did include error logging code, which the cadet had evidently predicted (had he been in a less contrary mood, Spock might have been impressed). It had not been invoked during the course of the simulation, but it was still present--and there, in the message to the console, someone had written "This 100-line section of code is written inefficiently. Love, Captain Kirk."

Human jokes were among the most difficult aspect of their culture to understand. The cadet's effort at humor, however, made it very easy to compile the dossier for the following day's disciplinary hearing. Spock finished sufficiently early that he had some time to spend with Nyota.

They only discussed Kirk briefly as they sat on the couch together after a simple but comforting evening meal.

The announcement for the hearing had been sent a mere half-hour after Admiral Barnett had received his message outlining the details of the Cadet's offense.

"So this all-Academy meeting is on the subject of our favorite test-taker, I'm assuming."

If she avoided phrasing the query as a proper question, he reasoned, it was appropriate to respond; she was not abusing his favoritism by making conversation. "Yes."

"You want to get him expelled."

This was not true. Spock did not want any Cadet who entered the academy to be forced to leave for any reason. But it was undeniable that not all who entered were of the correct disposition for a productive career in the fleet. Some could be accomodated with lower-level security-related positions. Some could not. He maintained ambivalence on the subject of Kirk: his intelligence was manifest both in his records and his handling of the Kobayashi Maru. Cheating on it to the extent that he had required skill and creativity and intelligence.

It was this ambivalence that caused him to defer to regulation. In the event that an instructor had reason to believe an incident of academic dishonesty had taken place, the instructor was expected to both thoroughly investigate and report the incident. It was not his job as instructor to act as judge--he would likely have a say on the ultimate council decision--and thus he set aside his judgment on Kirk's fate and, quite simply, did his job.

His job was facilitated, however--and through the course of his afternoon he had found himself freely admitting it, mentally--by a largely illogically powerful dislike for the man himself.

He attempted to explain himself concisely. "Cadet Kirk has violated the rules governing student conduct at the Academy, which is particularly notable given his stated goals of achieving a commanding position on a starship. As an instructor, it is my duty to report this violation. I do not know that he will be expelled."

She looked uncomfortable. "We're also violating the rules governing conduct, aren't we?"

There was no easy answer to this question, though he sensed that it was rhetorical. His ability to recognize such questions was improving; he no longer tried to answer them all. Instead, he let out a breath and drew her towards him, running his fingers along her upper arm and pressing his lips against her temple. She closed her eyes at the touch and smiled, softly. Sadly.

They spoke no more of it that evening.

The following morning, Spock sat in a large lecture hall, surrounded by the faculty and current cadet class. Nyota was somewhere in the crowd, though he had not had the pleasure of locating her before sitting, with long-practiced immaculate posture, in the front third of the room. These meetings were rare, but were considered vital to the continued functioning of the community. Open resolution and public discipline in the case of dishonesty was critical to the maintenance of a fleet that had trust in the integrity of both its regulations and its command staff.

Cadet James T. Kirk stepped forward.

"Cadet Kirk. Evidence has been submitted to this council suggesting that you violated the ethical code of conduct pursuant to regulation 17.43 of the Starfleet Code. Is there anything you care to say before we begin, sir?"

Admiral Barnett's phrasing was lifted directly from protocol. The accused rarely spoke at this moment, but the defendant's right to defend oneself was always recognized explicitly. Most unethical cadets considered it wise to determine what, exactly, they had been accused of before offering an opinion on their relative guilt.

James T. Kirk was not like most unethical cadets.

"Yes. I believe I have the right to face my accuser directly."

Spock did not need to be summoned by the Admiral; he had mentally prepared for this eventuality. He stood, smoothed the inevitable but unfortunate creases from his uniform jacket, and evenly descended the stairs. At the podium, he waited for the Admiral to acknowledge him, following a largely unnecessary introduction, in his view (his successes post-graduation were not relevant to his testimony, and served only to distract from its content), before turning to the cadet. He projected his voice, practiced and clear, for the benefit of the audience.

"Cadet Kirk. You somehow managed to install and activate a subroutine in the programming code, thereby changing the conditions of the test."

It was a small point against his pride that he still had not determined how, exactly, Kirk had corrupted the programming, given the physical security of the examination room. It was not relevant to this hearing.

Kirk demonstrated his customary lack of respect to his superiors. "Your point being?"

The Admiral interjected. "In academic vernacular, you cheated."

"Let me ask you something I think we all know the answer to. The test itself is a cheat, isn't it? You programmed it to be unwinnable."

Ah. Suddenly the purpose of this discussion became clear to Spock, in a way that it had not been before. He had assumed that Kirk had cheated on the exam because he wished to impress his friends, his fellow classmates, with his bravado and cleverness. This explanation had seemed too simple, because although Kirk's faults were many, they did not appear to include the type of simple stupidity such a motivation would require, but it was the best at which he could arrive without additional information.

Here it was, instead. The cadet was, in a human's words, "making a point."

It seemed to Spock a peculiar argument on which to risk one's academic and military career.

"Your argument precludes the possibility of a no-win scenario."

"I don't believe in no-win scenarios."

These hearings rarely turned into debates on the finer points of commanding officer education. It was unfortunate, in some regards, that Kirk had so spectacularly called out the primary trick on which the Kobayashi Maru was predicated. While it was well-understood that everyone who attempted it failed, it was also quietly agreed-upon that everyone should try not to; the Academy maintained a polite fiction on the passability of the exam. Kirk had brought out a truth that everyone knew, but no one openly admitted.

At least the moment was a "teachable" one, even if doing so detracted very slightly from the subject of the discussion. There would be plenty of time to address repercussions for cheating.

"Then not only did you violate the rules, then you also failed to understand the principle lesson."

"Please, enlighten me."

Spock's vast knowledge of Starfleet military history, originally collected and mentally compiled as a hobby as a child and then formally studied upon his controversial decision to attend the Academy as a young adult, proved helpful, as it often did.

"You of all people should know, Cadet Kirk, a captain cannot cheat death."

"I, of all people." The Cadet looked away, in a manner that indicated that he knew which incident to which Spock was referring. It was for the benefit of their audience, and for the sake of clarity, always beneficial to the progress of a debate, that he continued, though he recognized, mentally, that the mentioning of family represented a rather sensitive argumentative approach.

"Your father, Lieutenant George Kirk, assumed command of his vessel before being killed in action, did he not?"

"I don't think that you like the fact that I beat your test."

The fact that the Cadet tried his self-control more than any human he had ever encountered, Nyota included, was unhelpful; he felt his voice raise very, very slightly, a gross public lapse in emotional willpower of which, if the room had contained any other Vulcans to observe it, his own people would have disapproved integrally.

"Furthermore, you have failed to divine the purpose of the test."

"Enlighten me again."

"The purpose is to experience fear. Fear in the face of certain death; to accept that fear, and to maintain control of oneself and one's crew. This is a quality expected in every Starfleet captain."

This statement represented a return to a well-practiced phrase and a tone he often used while teaching, and in repetition Spock regained his calm. There was no reason to lose his well-monitored temper over a man like James Kirk. Spock observed Kirk's pause in reaction to this point and sensed a potentially advantageous turn in the conversation.

This sense could never be tested, however; they were interrupted.

"Excuse me, sir."

Spock watched with interest as the courier handed the message to the Admiral, whose eyes flitted with almost imperceptible briefness to the Vulcan commander, the distinguished graduate, the rare, the implacable alien. Such an interruption was unprecedented, signifying, perhaps, a significant military event and likely a rapid deployment. Full-Academy meetings would not be interrupted for anything else.

Spock mentally switched his focus, immediately, completely, from the cadet to his right to his commanding officer.

"We've received a distress call from Vulcan."

_What?_

"With our primary fleet engaged in the Laurentian system, I hereby order all cadets to report to Hanger One immediately. Dismissed."

* * *

_A/N: And next: awesome Enterprise action! Also, reviews are made of rainbows._


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **Whew! The holiday weekend really screwed up my writing schedule, which is why this took so long. My apologies to my patient readers. In my defense, at least this one is lengthy, no? Hopefully we're now back to our regularly scheduled programming...

**Disclaimer: **I'm pretty sure every line of dialogue in this chapter is drawn directly from the Star Trek 2009 film. I did not write them, they did not start in my brain, I take no credit for them whatsoever. Nor am I making any money from this; all characters and related are property of a number of corporate entities and were invented by Gene Roddenberry. I'm just having a little fun.

**Beta: **Many thanks to mhgood, my incomparable beta.

* * *

Spock reassured himself that his speed and efficiency were a product of his training, and not of his nerves. He was well-trained and generally predisposed to avoid nerves, as he was well-trained and predisposed to operate efficiently. He read the mission transmission, now propagated to the PADDs of all relevant command staff, impassively, analyzed the mission parameters, internalized the statement of facts, and successfully compartmentalized the name of the planet under consideration. The fact that the peculiar and entirely unforeseen seismic activity in question happened to be taking place on his home planet, where his mother stood, lived, breathed, had no effect upon his efficacy.

In fact, he only paused once in the discharge of his duties, near the end of the list of linguistics cadets he had been assigned to deploy, on a name that sang like music through his mind. The computer assigned most cadets automatically, reserving for the supervising officer the task of deploying the difficult-to-categorize, the corner cases. The exceptional. He paused for nearly double his typical length of time--12.4 seconds, as opposed to his measured 6.3 average--eyes switching between the few ships that still required communications experts after the rest of the cadet population had been dispatched. It was unfortunate that he had been tasked with supervising the linguistics students instead of the computer scientists.

She wanted the _Enterprise_.

He shouldn't know that fact; it should not influence his decision. He only knew of her preferences because of their affair.

She was the best of her class, by far. The _Enterprise_ required the best of the fleet.

He was rationalizing because he wanted her there, with him.

The _Enterprise_ would be foremost on any hypothetical front line.

He was rationalizing because he wanted her safe.

_They would know._

He assigned her to the _Farragut_ without further analysis of his motivations or of the decision's implications. There were many additional duties to which he must attend.

23 minutes later he was on the ground in Hangar 1, finalizing the list of engineering supplies for the _Enterprise_, when a familiar voice interrupted his thoughts. He should have predicted this.

"Commander, a word."

He did not look up, as he would not for any other cadet who interrupted him. "Yes, Lieutenant."

"Was I not one of your top students."

This was not a question. Her phrasing was more clipped than usual. He responded in the measured tone he always used with her -- with anybody -- in public. He also kept walking, as he was expected in Bay 5 in 43 seconds. Not in the least dissuaded, she followed immediately behind, and her clacking boots emphasized every step.

"Indeed you were."

"And did I not, on multiple occasions, demonstrate an _exceptional_ aural sensitivity and, I quote, 'an unparalleled ability to identify sonic anomalies in subspace transmission tests'?"

She was, with high probability, quite emotionally disturbed by her assignment. It was unlike her to reference his private words in argument against him in a public setting. He thought it best to ignore the behavior; they had no time, and this was not the place, for a discussion on the subject. Moreover, the question was trivial to answer.

"Consistently, yes."

"And while you are well aware that my unqualified desire is to serve on the _USS Enterprise_, I'm assigned to the _Farragut_?"

She turned to him as he stopped and looked to her face, and her voice lost the measured evenness to which she so carefully adhered publicly. Her eyes were wide. She was angry. She was right to be angry; she was the best in her class, she could expect the best assignment. He stood silent for the briefest of moments, trying to explain, trying to remember his reasoning. He sought to keep his voice at a volume sufficient for her to hear him but too low to allow passers-by to discern his next comment.

"It was an attempt to avoid the appearance of favoritism."

They both heard the mid-sentence pause. Understanding passed between them. They both knew he was in the wrong. It was a rare situation.

She did not argue, she merely spoke with a firmness. She was a strong woman. He admired this about her. "No, I'm assigned to the _Enterprise_."

It was the work of seconds to adjust the assignment on his PADD. "Yes, I believe you are."

"Thank you."

37 minutes after this conversation, having boarded the transport reserved for the bridge staff, he himself was on board the _Enterprise_. He had not seen Nyota since their exchange in the hangar, and he did not look for her. In truth, he was not seeing the faces of any of the airmen he passed; he merely processed the words and data that flowed to him in a constant stream, from the PADD that seemed to always contain an unread communication, from the engineering managers summarizing their preparations, from the ship-wide communication system that broadcast system-wide progress reports. From the command station where he reported for duty to the science labs to the engineering deck, he checked off tasks one by one, and mentally observed, with a small degree of satisfaction, that he was entering the turbolift to report to the bridge four minutes ahead of schedule.

Pike, a captain under whom he had served in the past, and for whom he held the highest regard, did not acknowledge this fact, of course (efficiency was its own reward, his childhood conditioning chirped), but merely greeted him, politely, as Spock walked with purpose to his station and reported the status of the engineering deck as he had collected it three minutes previously. Ahead, the stars were framed by the viewscreen; around them, other members of the fleet were visible--the _Farragut_, the _Hood_, the _Odyssey--_and he imagined the crew of these no less critical vessels undergoing the exact same preparations as his own. The fluidity of the system, when it worked, was simple, logical, even beautiful.

He turned from the view to the Captain as he began to properly issue orders.

"All decks, this is Captain Pike. Prepare for immediate departure. Helm, thrusters."

The pilot manning the helm was not the familiar McKenna, with whom Pike (and Spock, by extension) had served on their previous deployment. Instead, the young pilot Sulu appeared to be at the controls; Spock remembered him from previous exam administrations. By his recollection, Sulu was an intelligent and capable officer. He was also comparatively inexperienced and young, and unlikely to have operated a vessel of this size and complexity. Spock turned from his controls, which did not currently require his attention, to focus on the task of warping. The pilot's responses were measured and accurate.

"Moorings retracted, Captain. Dock control reports ready. Thrusters fired. Separating from spacedock. The fleet's cleared spacedock, Captain, all ships ready for warp."

"Set course for Vulcan."

Spock experienced a mild uptick at the sound of his home, all while watching the young pilot key in the necessary sequences for warp. He had memorized these prior to his first engagement aboard a first-class starcraft. Enable the primary power connection to the STL engines and the external thrusters. Switch on the auto-control to maintain even pitch, roll, and yaw with regards to the ship's center of gravity, and its relation to the dock. Engage the secondary and tertiary systems for stability fault-tolerance. Initialize the calculations for the course (this would be trivial; calculations to common federation locations were cached).

"Aye aye, Captain. Course laid in."

"Maximum warp. Punch it."

Engage the internal inertial dampeners so that the crew would not suffer the ill-effects of a jump to warp. Enable primary and secondary power to the warp cores. Disengage the external--

Perhaps not.

The warp cores revved impressively as the other ships jumped away around them.

"Lieutenant, where's helmsmen McKenna?" Pike was barely suppressing his irritation; Spock predicted that sarcasm would come next, as it did in 84% of such instances.

"He has lungworm, sir. He couldn't report to his post. I'm Hikaru Sulu."

"And you are a pilot, right?"

The pilot appeared to take this statement in good humor, though his anxiety was apparent in his smile. "Very much so, sir. I'm a, I'm not sure what's wrong, here."

"Is the parking brake on?" Pike was drawling, here, understandably annoyed at the time lost compared to the rest of the fleet. Starships did not have parking brakes; they did not need them. The external dampeners were the closest analogue; the pilot must be suffering nerves to not have made the connection.

"Uh, no...I'll figure it out, I'm just--"

Under normal circumstances, Spock would have let the issue progress naturally, but the urgency of the situation spurred him to intervene, quietly. "--have you disengaged the external initial dampeners?"

Sulu reached for the control in question, though he did not otherwise acknowledge the suggestion. "Ready for warp, sir."

"Let's punch it."

Minutes later, the young Russian human was announcing the parameters of the mission to the rest of the ship. Spock made a mental note to tune the voice recognition software at the Ensign's station as soon as time permitted; it was unreasonable and unsafe to allow delays to arise from something as simple as an particularly strong human accent. Meanwhile, he double-checked the calculations he was running against the known physical parameters of Vulcan. Although the lack of information made it very difficult to predict or understand the situation on the ground, the computer could churn away quite easily on possible causes and scenarios regarding the observed seismic activity. It was possible that such calculations would be useful in their mission, and the console's cores would lie idle otherwise.

He experienced a nagging in the back of his mind as he refreshed his memory as to the mission's parameters, however. The situation was unusual to a worrisome degree. He attempted to dismiss his rather illogical unease as being due to the fact that the planet involved was his home.

He was therefore not at all expecting the interruption that came at that particular moment. A pounding of feet, shouting. Nyota?

"Captain! We have to stop the ship."

_Kirk?_

Three cadets, identifiable as such by their uniforms (Nyota, and a member of the medical staff, by his insignia) and their faces (Kirk), bounded onto the bridge. Kirk himself was not in proper dress, which was to be expected, as he had been grounded pending the conclusion of his academic disciplinary hearing and most certainly was not legitimately deployed aboard the _Enterprise_. In actuality, he appeared quite ill, as sweat was pouring down his notably flushed face and one of his pupils was distinctly more dilated than the other. All three had been running, though by their postures, the most likely scenario was one in which Kirk had been headed for the bridge (where he quite notably did not belong) and the other two had been giving chase. Nyota's eyebrows were pinched, and her apparent concern deepened when she turned to him and appeared to take in his raised eyebrow.

This was turning into a very peculiar sequence of days.

Pike adhered to his reputation as a mercifully straight talker and vocalized exactly the question that was rolling through Spock's mind. "Kirk, how the hell did you get on board the _Enterprise_?"

The doctor standing beside Kirk spoke, now, and Spock recognized his voice from the most recent administration of the Kobayashi Maru. A friend of Kirk's? He seemed not to cow to the cadet's charms, which was fortunate. There perhaps existed someone besides Nyota in the Cadet class who was not enamored of the man. The doctor was well-mannered and respectful, and attempted to explain, talking over Kirk as much as possible, given the mayhem.

"Captain, this man is under the influence of a severe reaction to a vaccine--"

Kirk interrupted, waving his hands, which appeared oddly...swollen? "Bones, Bones please--"

Bones? Who was this man? Spock again noted Nyota behind him, still breathing heavily from the chase; he wondered how she had become involved.

"He's completely delusional. I take full responsibility."

Kirk spoke again, louder. "Vulcan is not experiencing a natural disaster. It's being attacked by Romulans."

The words sent a chill through the room and up Spock's spine, before he instinctively suppressed the reaction. Fortunately, Pike remained rational.

"Romulans? Cadet Kirk, I think you've had enough attention for one day."

In that respect, no one could possibly disagree. Pike continued.

"McCoy, take him back to medical. We'll have words later."

"Aye, Captain."

How had the cadet come aboard? The doctor must have assisted. He could not have been legitimately assigned to the _Enterprise_. In the interest of being thorough, Spock scanned through the cleared crew logs, and then the logs of cadet flight status, to verify this fact. Kirk, meanwhile, had not been dissuaded in whatever crazed mission had brought him pounding into the bridge in the first place.

"Captain, that same anomaly--"

"Kirk!" The Captain's voice was sharp and exasperated. They all spoke at once, now, over one another, as Spock interjected simultaneously.

"Mr. Kirk is not cleared to be aboard this ship, sir."

Kirk turned his attention to Spock. "Look, I get it, you're a great arguer, I'd love to do it again--"

"I can remove the cadet." This would be a trivial and mostly harmless procedure; he should have thought of it as soon as the man had stormed onto the bridge.

The cadet remained particularly insistent. "Try it! This cadet is trying to save the bridge."

"By recommending a full stop mid-warp during a rescue mission?" The insanity of the proposal was lost on no one.

Kirk remained adamant, however. His persistence might have been admirable, if only it could be properly applied. "It's not a rescue mission. Listen to me. It's an attack."

Hatred was illogical and unVulcan and completely inappropriate. Spock remembered his father's words as though they had been spoken yesterday, and not years previous. Hatred was unbecoming, his mother whispered, much more softly, as though she were standing right behind him, and not still on a planet they were taking too long to save.

He swallowed it, articulating slightly more precisely. "Based on what facts?"

There was a long, distinctly uncomfortable pause across the bridge. Spock was not the only individual who had mentally formulated this question, though he had been the first to actually ask it. Kirk, with all the attention, appeared to collect himself.

"That same anomaly, a 'lightning storm in space,' that we saw today, also occurred on the day of my birth, before a Romulan ship attacked the USS _Kelvin_."

This sentence flashed through Spock's mind like a floodlamp brought into a darkened room, illuminating the shape of the whole of the situation, comprised of pieces that he had failed to put together himself until this very moment.

Kirk turned to Pike. "You know that, sir, I read your dissertation."

He was a remarkable showman. He continued.

"That ship, which had formidable and advanced weaponry, was neither seen nor heard from again. The _Kelvin_ attack took place on the edge of Klingon space, and at 2300 hours last night, there was an attack. 47 Klingon warbirds destroyed by Romulans, sir, and it was reported that the Romulans were in one ship, one massive ship."

This was news to Spock. Did Pike know of it? His answer was uninformative, though he sounded skeptical. "And you know of this Klingon attack how?"

Kirk looked at Nyota, of all people. This might explain her presence here, three decks above her post. She looked ill-at-ease, keeping her eyes straight ahead. "Sir, I intercepted and translated the message myself. Kirk's report is accurate."

It was odd that she had not mentioned it over the last meal they had shared, though he himself had deliberately avoided talk of work.

Kirk summarized. "We're walking into a trap, sir, there are Romulans waiting for us. I promise you that."

Romulans with advanced weaponry, against a fleet staffed almost entirely by inexperienced cadets? The situation had deteriorated rapidly, and the nagging concern for the safety of his people was blossoming. Spock had processed and analyzed the new information, with a quick answer for Pike's questioning look. "The cadet's logic is sound. And Lieutenant Uhura is unmatched in xenolinguistics, we would be wise to accept her conclusion."

She glanced at him, in gratitude, perhaps, and relaxed her shoulders, slightly, but visibly. She had been agitated.

Pike was a steady and intelligent captain and changed gears immediately. He turned to the communications officer. "Scan Vulcan space; scan for any transmissions in Romulan."

"Sir, I'm not sure I can distinguish the Romulan language from Vulcan."

Remembering this later, Nyota would roll her eyes. Spock was not an eye-roller, but if he were, he would have joined her.

Pike, who had never had any patience for incompetence, turned to Nyota. "What about you, do you speak Romulan, Cadet..."

"Uhura. All three dialects, sir."

She did. Her accent on the third was uncannily native.

"Uhura, relieve the Lieutenant."

Nyota let out a breathe with a near-smile that betrayed her pleasure in her sudden promotion, despite the circumstances. He was pleased that her skills were being recognized and properly utilized at the appropriate juncture. "Yes sir."

Uhura donned her headphones and began a full-frequency scan. Meanwhile, Pike turned to the officer at the inter-fleet communicator. "Hannity, hail the USS _Truman_."

Hannity's brows furrowed, though her tone suggested she was confused more than concerned. Her words, however, heightened Spock's sense that all was not well. "All the other ships are out of warp and arrived at Vulcan, but we we seem to have lost all contact."

This statement seemed to have the same effect on Pike who, despite his calm and efficient orders, wore an expression of concern on his lined face. Uncertainty was often worse than knowledge of danger in terms of psychological effect on the anxiety of the average humanoid, and Pike was no exception.

Nyota's words added to the situation's gravity. "Sir, I pick up no Romulan transmission, or transmission of any kind in the area."

Kirk, who had remained blissfully silent for what was bordering on three entire minutes, felt the need to add, bluntly, "It's because they're being attacked."

Spock remembered precisely how much he admired Pike when the captain glanced at the cadet with an expression of unmitigated annoyance, before he looked back at the viewscreen with what could be nothing but concern. His next command was ominous. "Shield's up, red alert."

The beat after Pike's last command hung in the air for an interminable stretch. Relativity, that most basic of physical principles, was an astonishing thing. So much could change in four and a half minutes, such that they could stretch for what felt like hours. This rendered the pilot's next statement much more jarring: "Arrival at Vulcan in five seconds."

Kirk's logic was sound, but there remained a non-trivial probability that he was wrong.

"Four."

Spock's eyes, like those of everyone else on the deck, were glued to the blue haze of the view screen.

He was not a wisher or a believer in luck or the gods, but he held quite a fervent a preference for a universe in which Kirk _was_ wrong.

"Three."

His hands gripped the console in front of him, instinctively bracing for possible impact.

_Let him be wrong._

"Two."

Spock felt Kirk's eyes on him, and turned to meet the gaze, hard, apprehensive.

Then they came out of warp.

His mind, in a rare and uncharacteristic attention lapse, blanked for just the briefest of moments at the sight of the ruination, so bright and ugly and chaotic, so illogical in its shape and scatter, so unlike the tidy, mathematical destruction he had been programming for so many years (the physics of true space battle were too complicated to simulate efficiently, though he wondered now if he could, really, do it justice. This turmoil seemed to abide by no physical laws, even if the scientist in him knew this could not be the case). And his first true feeling, before his hands rushed out to steady himself against the sudden bucking of the ship and his thoughts pounded in and he returned to the matter at hand, before he remembered his position and his calm in the face of any such suddenly dangerous and uncertain conditions of war, was a deep and abiding gratitude that Nyota had had the intelligence and fortitude and motivation to seek him out, to find him, and to talk sense into him on the subject of her ship assignment.

* * *


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **This chapter is a monster. I'm sorry it's so long - we had to get through the first half to get to the second half. You'll see what I mean.

**Beta Love:** MHGOOD. That is all.

**Disclaimer:** Much dialogue and some plot is borrowed, lovingly, from the movie, but it's not mine, I don't own it, I make no money from it. I'm just playing. Don't sue me.

* * *

"Emergency evasive!"

Spock hurtled from his position near the captain's chair back to his console, where he could be of service, a bare moment after the orders started firing. He could not, however, stop himself from glancing back over his shoulder at the viewscreen, catching glimpses of Vulcan, his home, his only home, on which he had not laid eyes in nearly seven years, shining like a sun behind the carnage.

The wreckage of one of the starships--the _Defiant_?--filled the screen like death's shadow. There was no avoiding the smaller detritus--metal, equipment, vacant transporter pods drifting morbidly, bodies--that floated like so much space dust. At their current speed, a tremendously skilled pilot would be unlikely to avoid tearing off the entirety of the Enterprise's upper decks. Sulu, in that respect, did an admirable job, though the sound of the partial collision that ensued raised the hairs of everyone on the bridge who had them.

The ship monitors shouted reports, one over the top of the other. Damage to the forward holds. Loss of power to the rear of decks nine and ten. Stress fractures in the nacelle containment hulls. The _Enterprise_ rumbled under the strain, but the noise and the rattling vanished into the background as Spock turned, again, from his computer, which was attempting to make sense of the universe despite an abrupt and unexplained lack of uplink to the main Starfleet computational and data servers.

Spock turned, in fact, at Pike's sudden and notable silence in the midst of the damage and environmental updates. Shock once again overtook him (and his eyes even widened, ever so slightly; he could sense an unfamiliar muscle tightening) at the sight ahead, of an enormous entity, black and shining, tendrils eerily snaking into space from a central hull. The single largest space-bound entity Spock--or, likely, anyone--had ever seen. The architecture, all drama and darkness, was unambiguously Romulan, though not of any Romulan design he had ever studied or observed.

It was horrifying.

His console's screams brought him back to his senses. "Captain, they're locking torpedoes."

Pike's response was immediate. "Divert auxiliary power from port nacelles to forward shields."

The _Enterprise_ was equipped with the most powerful shields that science and interstellar cooperation could produce, but they fluttered and ruptured like tissue under the weight of the missiles. Structural integrity reports kept streaming in: explosions on decks five and six, starboard. Spock mentally tallied. Auxiliary Medical.

The uplink beacon failed, once again, to connect to the Starfleet data servers. This was illogical in the face of the damage they had suffered; the dishes were located on the underside of the starcraft, with auxiliary fail-safes installed at rear port. They had sustained aggressive forward and topside damage, but the beacons themselves should have remained untouched. Spock initiated shallow scans of the enemy ship for any possible explanation for the loss of connectivity; his standard system analysis had yielded no illuminating information.

Pike barked. "Get me Starfleet command."

This scan, at the least, was successful, and Spock answered the call before Nyota could. The news he delivered on behalf of his console was ominous. What could a pulse jammer be doing in his planet's atmosphere? "Captain, the Romulan ship has lowered some kind of high-energy pulse device into the Vulcan atmosphere. Its signal appears to be blocking our communication and transporter abilities."

Pike called for weapons. This was logical, if, in all likelihood, futile. There was nothing else to be done.

Not until Nyota's voice rang above the preparations. She had adapted to her promoted position with a grace that was satisfying to observe. "Captain, we're being hailed."

A distinctively Romulan face filled the view screen, tattoos and all. Green-tinged skin and the ears were all that testified to the ancestry this barbaric man shared with Spock's people.

"Hello."

Pike spoke with confidence that was only slightly colored by confusion. "I'm Captain Christopher Pike. To whom am I speaking?"

The Romulan's response was oddly casual. "Hi Christopher, I'm Nero."

Spock turned back to his console; the sudden reprieve allowed him to devote more careful attention to his surveillance duties. Besides, he could essentially quote, verbatim, what Pike would say to the Romulan: his words were prescribed by protocol, and Spock knew the protocol by heart.

He turned at the sound of his name, registering that the Romulan, Nero, had disavowed connection with the Romulan Empire.

"...stand apart. As does your Vulcan crew member. Isn't that right, Spock?"

This comment was unexpected. Spock, contrary to standard procedure in these instances, where he would typically defer to his commanding officer, arose from his seat to address the Romulan. "Pardon me, I do not believe that you are I are acquainted."

"No, we're not, not yet. Spock, there's something I would like you to see."

Spock struggled to process this statement. This man was not like admittedly few others of the Romulan race with whom Spock had been acquainted. Nero's eyes glinted with a peculiar sort of insanity, and his words did not fit into a sensible whole. His last comment was ominous in the way of a madman's; a madman at the helm of the most powerful starship anyone had ever seen.

Nero continued. "Captain Pike, your transporter has been disabled. As you can see, by the rest of your armada, you have no choice. You will man a shuttle, come aboard the Narada for negotiations. That is all."

This was not a good idea.

Pike stood as all eyes turned to him, the viewscreen flickering off.

Kirk spoke first, vocalizing a thought that many of the command deck were likely to be thinking. "He'll kill you, you know that."

For the second time in the span of 10 minutes, Spock found himself agreeing--not simply agreeing, but vehemently agreeing--with the logic of the insufferable cadet. "Your survival is unlikely."

Kirk cut in. "Captain, we gain nothing by diplomacy. Going over to that ship is a mistake."

Their words overlapped, fit together, flowed; they spoke as though from two parts of one sentience. "I too agree, you should rethink your strategy."

Pike ended their suddenly synergistic train of thought, almost dismissively. "I understand that. I need officers who have been trained in hand to hand combat."

Several seconds later, with Sulu and and Olson, _Enterprise_'s eminently capable Chief Engineer, in tow, Spock, Pike, and Kirk--skilled in combat, his records had said; superb abilities, Spock remembered--were moving quickly down the hall to the turbolift leading to the shuttle deck. Pike was outlining a particularly audacious strategy for survival and victory over the Romulans who manned the enormous ship. If they survived this particular situation, Spock would need to analyze this plan and the thought process that led to it. What about Pike's history and psychological makeup led him to this strategy, involving these crew members, over the span of the 1:47 seconds that had passed between when he learned of the Romulan blockage of transmissions and right now, as they walked down the hall?

Aside from the fact that Pike was, in fact, boarding a shuttlecraft, and that he was sending down three men via space jump to settle the issue of transport capability, the strategy was relatively straightforward. Spock's role in it was particularly so: as second in command and in the captain's (temporary, under the best of circumstances), he was promoted, tasked with overseeing ship maintenance and making necessary military decisions, such as whether and when to fall back.

He was well prepared for this responsibility.

He was not well prepared for the Captain's final statement. "Kirk, I'm promoting you to First Officer."

At least Kirk possessed the presence of mind to sound surprised. "What?!"

Spock attempted to understand what the Captain could possibly intend. Kirk was a cadet, and a cadet on academic probation. He was not posted to the ship. First Officer was a position of responsibility, particularly in a time of war. Why, then, would the highly respected Christopher Pike promote an inexperienced, behaviorally challenged cadet in the presence of so many of Starfleet's best, seasoned officers?

This, Spock concluded, must be an instance of human humor. There was no other logical explanation. "Captain? Please, I apologize, the complexity of human pranks escape me."

Pike's response was not encouraging. "It's not a prank, Spock, and I'm not the Captain; you are."

Kirk caught his eye, at this point, looking almost...amused? Spock furrowed his eyebrows, in an effort to make sense of the new assignment. What in the universe did Pike see in the cadet that he did not? And moreover, what sense did it make to promote to First Officer a man one had just assigned to space jump to a platform guarded by Romulans of indeterminate arms?

He was vaguely aware of Pike making an offhand remark about needing to be collected after transport abilities were reinstated, before the captain caught his eye one last time. "Careful with the ship, Spock, she's brand new."

And with that, and a whish of the turbo's doors, the captain was gone.

Spock wasted no time returning to the comm deck, mentally enumerating tasks as he went. They needed to organize and clear the space jump and transport to the Romulan ship, with the requisite supplies. Space jumps were dangerous, and required precise cooperation between the command staff and the jumpers in order to ensure the safety of the airmen involved. In this case, there was no room for error.

The next important task would be to determine the state of the ship, tally any damage and casualty reports, and reassign staff to tend to the damage and injuries as necessary. These corrections would need to be prioritized based on who was injured and what had been damaged or destroyed in the attacks; defense shields should be repaired first, as well as offensive capabilities. Life support systems needed to maintain redundancy in order to maximize fault-tolerance; the redundant systems could save their lives in the event of an evacuation. The evacuatory system needed to be placed on stand-by in order to speed the order, if necessary.

Once the ship had been tended to, they needed to provide support, if necessary and possible, to the airmen on the planet below, initiate diplomatic contact with the Romulans in an effort to secure the release of the captain...the list went on.

And they needed to find out what was happening to Vulcan. Vulcan. _Vulcan_.

He deliberately smoothed over the thought, crowding it out with the other details at hand. If the command staff was surprised to see him take the captain's seat, thinking hard, they said nothing.

Step one, Medical. He punched the button on the captain's comm. "Doctor Puri, report."

The voice of Kirk's associate shot back at him, the sound of flames and crashing and mayhem nearly drowning him out. "It's McCoy. Doctor Puri was on deck six; he's dead."

This was inauspicious. "Then you have just inherited his responsibilities as Chief Medical Officer."

The cadet's response from the other end of the comm link was sarcastic; Spock had only recently begun to regularly discern human sarcasm. "Yeah, tell me something I don't know."

It appeared that the medical decks in question were still ablaze, and thus there was nothing else to discuss with the medical team before the flames were out. Spock dispatched additional crew from the engine bay to assist. The space doors in compartments 13-27 had sealed automatically with the loss of the upper section of hull, and the newly fitted robotic hull generators were crawling the surface of the ship. He could not order a full repair, as doing so required use of the forward energy reserves and would slow them in the case of sudden evasive maneuvers, but a thin patch would defend the inner hull lining in the case of an additional attack.

Fortunately, the transport bay had been unharmed, and outfitting the space jumpers and manning a shuttle was trivial to arrange. Ensign Chekov cleared them to launch himself, looking over his shoulder for Spock's approval, eyes wide. He granted it with a slight nod.

"Commander, you are cleared from the USS _Enterprise_..."

Spock questioned this portion of the plan, as he questioned Pike's resolve to travel to the Romulan ship. Kirk and the Chief Engineer were reasonable choices for a dangerous combat mission, but it seemed illogical to send the pilot down as well, training or no. Sulu would have to live, for the sake of the _Enterprise_. Not to mention the planet below them.

Once the issues of ship repair and emergency system deployment had been addressed, and the transport had been launched--the work of several orders--and in light of the lack of communication, scan, and transport capabilities, there was not much to do in the captain's chair but keep an eye on the Romulan ship's weapons status and wait for reports from Chekov and the away team on their progress.

Answers would come with time. Patience and logic are two sides of one unified consciousness.

Chekov kept him updated. "Away team is entering the atmosphere, sir. Twenty thousand meters."

The Vulcan upper atmosphere was quite harsh, given the planet's proximity to the sun, and prone to high winds and powerful updrafts. Spock's nerves did not penetrate his facial expression. This did not mean he did not experience them faintly, in the back of his mind. He glanced around the control room and saw tension in the shoulders of all his staff, as they listened to updates from the air below.

His eyes fell on Nyota last; he did not allow himself longer than a brief glance, no longer than the look he had given any other member of the staff. She was concentrating fiercely on the subspace noise, pitifully weak in the absence of the amplification provided by the transbeaming satellite system. It likely sounded like static, but she scanned the channels all the same, flipping switches to find a transmission sequence of use. Her eyes met his, and though she did not smile nor acknowledge him with more than a nod, he felt a flash of gratitude for her presence.

Kirk shouted above a powerful wind. "Kirk to _Enterprise_. Distance to target, five thousand meters."

Chekov and Kirk alternated then, with Olson and Sulu chiming in with their progress. Forty-six hundred meters. Forty-five hundred meters.

Chutes should be pulled, soon, or they would not experience a sufficient updraft to slow their speed and land on the platform with precision and without bodily harm.

Three thousand meters. Two thousand meters.

The console bleeped as Sulu pulled his chute, followed closely by Kirk. The man's bravado had not extended to stupidity.

The same could not be said for Olson. Fifteen hundred meters.

Certain bipedal, humanoid life forms shared a susceptibility to the adrenal hormones, helpful in a survival sense in that they conferred power and strength in the event of a physical altercation and speed when flight was necessary. Vulcans were given to its effects, powerfully so, in fact, and humans too; Cardassians perhaps less so; Klingons not at all.

Sometimes its effects did not amplify in the interest of survivability. Perhaps the most mentally trying aspect of a command position was the fact that nothing could truly be done from the comm; one must sit and listen and wait, realizing that the Chief Engineer was lost to his own sort of madness. Frustration was an unVulcan emotion, as was sorrow.

The crewmembers on the away mission were tracked via transmitters attached to their person, and the beacons that tracked them chimed at regular intervals, each at slightly varying pitches. Olson, in the throes of his excitement, had clearly pulled his chute too late; Spock did not need a status update to determine this. Typically, however, a chime would continue even after vitals had been lost, altering its pitch and frequency, so the body could be recovered, if possible. In Olson's case, 6.7 seconds after the (far belated) chute pull, Olson's chime ceased entirely, as though the man, the chute, and the transmitter had all been entirely vaporized. This was fascinating; there had been no sounds of struggle. What sort of device were the men landing on? What was its purpose in the Vulcan atmosphere?

Chekov reported the obvious. "Olson is gone, sir."

Spock began to enumerate backup plans for the perfectly plausible eventuality that none of the three airmen made it to the platform, or that they failed in their task. The _Enterprise_ could, conceivably, once the temporary repairs were completed in approximately--he glanced at the monitor to his left--four minutes and twenty-two seconds, sever the connection between the platform device and the Romulan ship. The difficulty would be in launching missiles with sufficient accuracy to destroy the device without alerting the ship to their intentions, or--

Chekov cut in. "Kirk has landed, sir."

So long as Kirk and Sulu were on the platform, their battle cries and gasps and grunts echoing throughout the otherwise rapt bridge, there was no logic in further preparing a secondary plan. A full-on attack on the other ship would prove futile; he would be forced to wait.

Wait, and hope that Pike's faith in the pilot and Kirk were well-placed.

Every shout from below took an age. The silence with which they were otherwise engulfed was maddening. What was the platform doing in the atmosphere?

Triumphant shouts from below, and Nyota's voice, interrupting his concentration. "The jamming signal's gone. Transport abilities are reestablished."

Chekov, now: "Transporter control is reengaged, sir."

Finally. His orders were concise. It was beneficial to be Captain. "Chekov, run gravitational sensors, I want to know what they are doing to the planet."

"Aye Commander. Ach, Keptin. Sorry, Keptin."

Chekov's fingers flew as he processed the readings. The navigator's reputation as a prodigy was clearly deserved; he calculated with little help from the computers. Under different circumstances, Spock would have had a moment to be impressed.

However, the madness truly began with Kirk's voice, wreathed in static, from his position in the Vulcan atmosphere. "Kirk to _Enterprise_. They just launched something in the planet in the hole they just drilled. Do you copy, _Enterprise_?"

The consoles were screaming in dismay and confusion over the readings sent by the various planetary sensors. Spock mentally acknowledged that his current position as Captain was disadvantageous--his typical post at the Science Officer's chair lent him immediate access to relevant data. Here, he had to wait, in a state of painfully heightened anticipation. The pause before Chekov spoke was interminable.

His words themselves were perhaps even worse than the waiting. "Gravitational sensors are off the scale. If my calculations are correct, they're creating a singularity...that will consume the planet."

Mother.

This news, and the translation his brain was having a difficult time processing, was rendering it very difficult for Spock to continue to concentrate on his job. Instead, he asked for clarification. Slowly, and with disbelief. Chekov was telling him an impossible thing. "They are creating a black hole in the center of Vulcan?"

Chekov's answer was devastatingly concise. "Yes."

Spock felt his tenuous grasp on his emotions loosen, almost physically, before being gripped by, for the briefest of instants, fear. His next question felt surreal. "How long does the planet have?"

Chekov answered, sadly. "Minutes, sir. Minutes."

_Mother_.

The decision was made before Chekov finished his sentence. He was out of his chair, once again in full command of his emotions, his logic, his capacities. They needed to evacuate. Many Vulcans would not survive. The Vulcan High Council should be preserved. They would be in the Ark, meditating in the face of the unexpected and powerful seismic disturbances their home was experiencing. They would not hear the call to evacuate, and they would be too far from transport to heed it. His mother would be there.

He had to go. There was no one else.

He spoke and walked simultaneously, dropping the natural meter that usually tempered his speech. "Alert Vulcan command center to signal a planet-wide evacuation, all channels, all frequencies. Maintain standard orbit." He would have to operate quickly to beam everyone aboard before the singularity posed a danger to the ship, or his efforts would be for naught.

He felt and heard, but did not see, Nyota leave her command to follow him. "Spock, wait. Where are you going?"

Even under duress, her confusion did not audibly emote more than an understandably powerful professional concern. He could see, in the tension in her forehead, her true question. This was emphasized by the blatant violation of protocol involved in her abandonment of her post and in her address of him by his name, and not his title. Perhaps the breach was less obvious in light of Kirk's continuous poor behavior on the command deck, but it seemed that no one else on the staff took note. He was grateful for this. Still, he could not bring himself to reprimand her; he told himself to do so would call attention to her peculiar behavior, would make their interaction more noticeably strange. He told himself it was only logical to leave it aside.

Though, in truth, if it had been anyone else, he would not have answered.

"To evacuate the Vulcan high council. They are tasked with protecting our cultural history and my parents will be among them."

She did not want him to go, though she would not, ever, attempt to stop him. That was not her way. She was confused, worried. He read this in the way she blinked and stammered over her response. "Can't you beam them out?"

He failed to maintain eye contact as he spoke the devastating truth that drove him. They were all going to die if he did not go. "It is impossible. They will be in the Katric Ark; I must get them myself."

She looked at him with understanding and did not speak again. He would have to express his gratitude to her for her stoicism when he returned.

"Chekov, you have the con."

"Aye."

He was in need of a supply belt and a phaser; he could not in good conscience beam to the planet unarmed. Rummaging and some stern orders at the supply captain got him his way, though he was forced to divert his path to a rather roundabout route to avoid the damaged and space-bound portions of the equipment holds.

As he jogged, he heard the voices from the con: Sulu shouted; Kirk howled. They were falling. The transporter staff struggled to save them. Chekov, with what sounded like a loose communicator mike that bounced with his steps, shouted, and shouted. And ran. His footsteps rang in the inner lining of Spock's skull.

Spock held his communicator in his ear until he had completed 85% of the walk from equipment to the transporter room, at which point the discordance became intolerable.

He did not hear the swish of the doors to the transporter room above the crash of Kirk and Sulu hitting the floor. Chekov had beaten him there, manning the console, looking vaguely pleased.

Kirk and Sulu merely appeared sore.

Spock was not displeased to see them back alive. He did not have time for pleasure, however. He merely issued orders as he assumed a defensive posture on the transporter platform. "Clear the pad. I am beaming to the surface."

Kirk was not Nyota; Kirk shouted his opposition to this plan immediately. "The surface of what. Wait, you're going down there? Are you nuts? Spock, you can't do that!"

Kirk was not Nyota; Spock felt no need to explain himself to an inferior officer. Instead, he issued a firm command to the computer, which could not, mercifully, put up an argument. "Energize."

He felt the ground materialize beneath his feet as he maintained his defensive crouch, and had to remind himself to wait the requisite half-second for his weight to connect properly with the soil before looking up.

He knew the way well enough that he did not have to think to find it. This was fortunate. He was a pulsating wave of focus--his mind processed his surroundings and the crumbling mountainside on autopilot. He felt the variance of the of the planet's destruction through his boots, the different frequencies distinguishing themselves to him like music. A typical Vulcan earthquake wave operated at a frequency no greater than 30 Hertz; the average Vulcan could usually hear them, though humans frequently could not. The waves tearing apart the mountainside varied between 20 and 135 Herts, each distinct but overlapping, each roll disintegrating another portion of the range, sending boulders flying like children's toys.

His feet pounded against the dusty rock as his brain carried on without him. If the waves ranged planetwide from an epicenter deep at the core of Vulcan, the planet's structural integrity could hold together for no longer than several minutes. Chekov had been right.

He did not register the burn in his lungs or his legs as he heaved himself through the dusty corridor to the statue at the center of the Ark, though he knew, somewhere, that he had never run so fast in his life.

His mother looked up at him in unabashed surprise. "Spock?"

There was no time for the propriety required by an unexpected intrusion into the elder's gathering. Instead, he merely spoke the truth, with as much authority as he could muster. "The planet has only seconds left, we must evacuate. Mother, now!"

She did not ask questions. No one did. She took his proffered hand and ran with him, and not a moment too soon: the Ark was coming apart around them. The statues collapsed around them, and shouts of fear and alarm and pain filled the air with the dust.

It was one hundren and twelve meters from the place of prayer to the entrance of the cave. It was another three point four meters to clear the rocky overhang to a location where Chekov could easily target and beam them up. The roaring of the crumbling mountainside almost drowned the sound of those who did not make it--too elderly, or too unlucky, to escape their planet's demise. Spock heard one, two, three shouts, and when he reached the ledge, released his mother's hand and quickly spun to tally their losses, the missing spaces glaring at him reproachfully. He did not need to count to know how many, and who, they had lost.

He turned back to his mother, whose normally gentle face was a mask of anxiety.

"Spock to _Enterprise_, get us out now." Even a human could hear the urgency of the request, despite the Vulcan within him that tempered the proportion of his desperation that was audible. They were so close to safety, though beneath his feet the ground rumbled with ever-increasing power, suddenly as insubstantial as sand.

Chekov's voice in his ear brought promises of sanctuary, mere moments away. "Locking on you, don't move, stay right where you are." The lights of the transporter rays wove around them all, rendering them vaguely fantastic, and relief flooded through him. He felt the elders, the protectors of his culture, standing around him and knew they were gazing upon their crumbling home with horror and dismay. He would have too, if his eyes hadn't been locked on the silhouette of real reason he had come down so quickly to save them.

He would have nightmares about the six seconds that followed for the rest of his life.

In his dreams, she would look up at him and her eyes would be heavy with contemplation and fear and sorrow.

Chekov's voice would break in at this moment, as it did in reality, promising freedom, redemption: "Transport in five, four-"

His mother's eyes would catch his and she would look him dead on, full of a sudden wisdom, as though she knew what was coming. In his dreams, he knew too.

"Three, two--"

How had she ended up so close to the edge? They had exited the cave together, first. He was only trying to save her. Again, later, when this moment came back to him, unbidden, he had time. Decades. Eons of time to reach and grab her and hold her hand, and let Chekov bring them back together.

In reality it all went by much too quickly.

She disappeared then, as the mountainside fell away beneath her, gone with the ash and the rock and the disintegration of his home. His shout could be heard by the Old Ones, perched in their heavens, and his arm shot out of its own accord, to catch her.

"MOTHER."

Spock could hear Chekov in his headset, trying desperately to rectify the oversight, but even the miraculous young genius could not perform two statistically improbable miracles in so short a period of time.

(Somehow, in the rage that burned in him for years, he always managed to avoid placing blame on the child. Even in his fury, Spock knew that it was not Chekov's fault.)

But in his dreams, though he always had the time, always had the foresight, always, always left with her small hand in his own, safe and warm and loved, always, when he landed on the transporter pads safe on the solidity of the _Enterprise_ with a quiet hum and a swish, she was always gone. Every time.

He scarcely mourned or even registered the true collapse of Vulcan, which took place two minutes and seventeen seconds after his feet once again touched metal aboard the _Enterprise_. His world had already been destroyed.

* * *

_A/N: Reviews?_


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** A new chapter in less than a week?! Crazy! In truth, this one was tough. I know I say this a lot, but this one was tough. I think tragicCrazySpock is hardest to write.

**Disclaimer:** I borrowed some events and dialogue from the movie, some quotations from Memory Alpha, and I do all that lovingly and with no attempts to profit.

**Beta love:** mhgood is my beta and she is awesome in every way.

* * *

He did not speak more than a few words to any particular individual aboard the Enterprise for the first sixty-seven minutes after he landed on the launch pad with the Vulcan high council.

Neither Sulu nor Kirk, who had both been standing at the edge of the transporter ring as they all beamed aboard, had spoken a word to him. Kirk's eyes had been heavy with...sympathy, perhaps, though it was a human emotion with which Spock possessed little more than an academic familiarity, and thus he could not be certain. The medical staff had poured in, at that point, and ushered the injured crewmen and the rescued Vulcans to the sickbay for evaluation and treatment. Chekov, standing desolately at the transporter console, dropped his head and shoulders after the first long breath was released. Spock observed him only briefly, saw him swallow hard. Sulu gave him a squeeze on the upper tricep as he limped past, drawing his navigational partner away from the screen that had forsaken him.

McCoy, who had not yet know what had transpired in the preceding 4 minutes, not to mention what was happening to the planet below at that very moment, had only briefly, brusquely, evaluated Spock for injuries, before releasing him with a dismissiveness borne of too much work in too little time.

Spock experienced an appreciation of the man's efficiency.

Shortly after Vulcan was destroyed by the singularity, while the medical convoy travelled between transporter pad and sickbay, McCoy called Nyota down to assist in diplomatic interaction with the Vulcans newly aboard. Though they spoke perfectly satisfactory standard, they were all experiencing some degree of medical shock following the tumultuous events of the last several hours, and, though they would never admit it, they found comfort in being addressed in their native tongue. No human spoke it more competently than she.

She knew, already. He knew this, though he could not logically explain how, but she knew. He only saw her quickly: he took a sharp left to separate from the Vulcan delegation and their medical attendants midway along deck five as she rounded the corner en route between the command deck and the medical bay, and she crashed into him, bodily. Though he maintained his balance with little effort, the impact was jarring all the same.

Meanwhile, she steadied herself by grabbing onto his upper arms, unstable in her boots. She looked at him, hard, with weighty emotion on her face, and had seemed about to speak, and he struggled with a quick, curt response, because he was not sure how else to stop her, before he said something unwise, when McCoy saw her and grabbed her rather roughly by the shoulder and dragged her away, surprising whatever words she had been reaching for out of her throat.

He returned to his captain's chair on the brutally silent command deck. Chekov requested no direction; Spock was disinclined to provide it.

Instead he watched, as if from a great distance, his hand shake, almost imperceptibly, reaching for the record button on the captain's console. It was his duty to log the events of the evening; he reached for the button to commence his task. He reached, and his fingers shook. The sensation was distinctly foreign.

Lessons from his childhood murmured meditatively in his too-large skull. There is no place for anger. _Anger is a weakness. Logic offers solace. Detachment provides peace. Efficiency provides harmony._ He saw the rage and the sorrow in his trembling fingers, and was frightened by the lack of control they represented.

A captain must understand fear in order to overcome it. Surak's words came to him from his adolescence, a time during which they were all he had known: _Cast out fear. There is no room for anything else until you cast out fear._

(Odd, anyway, the sensation was rather the opposite: too much room in his brain. Was this a human sensation?)

(That particular koan had caused him several weeks of meditative trouble when he joined Starfleet.)

What had Surak known of loss? This loss? Spock's self control frayed, his fingers quavered again, hovering over the armrest of his seat. Slightly. And then, from his childhood:_ The mind controls the body; control the mind and the body will follow._

He clamped down, hard. The trembling stopped.

"Acting Captain's log."

He dictated the events of the day, concluding with a summary of Vulcan's losses. His losses. Reviewing his recorded comments, he noted, with some displeasure, excessive inflection, even for the naturally emotive Federation Standard, but concluded that his time could be better employed elsewhere. Efficiency is often found in knowing when the job performed is sufficient.

_Nobility lies in action._ Surak's words echoed through his strangely hollow brain. There were numerous duties requiring his immediate attention, before the larger issues could be addressed. He rose from the chair.

He first visited the medical bay proper. The fires in the auxiliary bay had been quenched, finally, but the injuries were numerous. Spock was not trained in medicine, but he inquired briefly as to the status of the refugees from his lost planet. He saw his own staff being tended to--Kirk, with a dislocated shoulder and a deep and ugly laceration to the right hand. Sulu, with whiplash and a cracked rib and another ugly wound--what exactly had those Romulans been armed with?--and a broken toe. Various security personnel from the upper decks, afflicted with an array of electrical burns and, in one case, a brutal concussion. He tallied their losses as best as could be done, from the records and recollections of various crewmembers. Not an unexpected number lost, and Olson the only senior staff member. The loss of the Engineering Chief could pose a serious problem in the case of a protracted engagement, but for their current purposes, though stretched a bit thin, his remaining crew would suffice.

(Suffice for what?)

He saw his father across the medical bay, their eyes meeting for a brief, bright moment. They did not speak. There was nothing to say.

Arrangements had to be made for the refugees from Vulcan. They required quarter and food and clothing. This required rearrangement of staff, to provide comfortable lodging for their distinguished guests.

Maps of crew quarters were pored over and adjusted.

A trip to engineering next occupied some time. The repairs were going well, and the second-in-command, a quiet Andorian by the name of Shras, had stepped up competently in Olson's absence. While Spock possessed more expertise on this level than he did in medical, there were few tasks requiring his attention.

The con remained silent, though Nyota had returned, listening quietly to the transmissions space chose to share with her.

He returned to the captain's chair. Waited for reports. Steepled his fingers.

Rock exploded behind his eyelids, and the ground shook beneath his feet.

_Nobility lies in action._

He stood. He had not checked on the progress of the crewmembers tallying what had been lost in the forward storage bays; he desired a report. He moved with precision towards the lift.

She moved so quickly, so silently, that he genuinely did not hear her leave her post and follow him to the turbolift. She had removed her headset, suggesting that she was not moving throughout the ship on official business. He did not speak in acknowledgement of her, not even when she reached to press the turbo's manual override and stopped the car between floors. He had, very plainly, nothing to say

She looked him dead-on, again, eyes full of more sorrow and feeling than he could ever imagine visibly emoting. He felt her look at him and it was as though he were behind glass, or submerged in water, or cement. Though he knew that the logical, productive, efficient course of action would be to reprimand the inferior officer and to restart the turbo lift, his hands wouldn't follow the order to move. He experienced a sudden and powerful yearning to be back at his room at the academy, her warm body in his arms, her laughter against his neck.

This desire was entirely illogical. It could not possibly be. There were duties to be performed. He was required on the equipment decks. _Control the mind--_

Her words broke in. They genuinely surprised him, or the small part of him that possessed the capacity for surprise, under these particular circumstances. He had never heard words remotely like them before. Had never imagined words like them.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

She was powerfully human, he observed distantly, reaching her hands to his face to look him square in the eyes.

"I'm so sorry."

And then she kissed him, holding him firmly, against the lips, and then the jaw, and the cheek. She smelled so much like Nyota that it was easy to forget himself; he felt his eyes slide shut for an instant at the contact, all warmth and love. Her hands slid behind his head to the back of his neck and she wrapped her other arm around him, to pull him close to her.

He struggled to maintain his posture, though he could no longer remember why. Surak reminded him. _Reach out to others courteously. Accept their reaching in the same way, with careful hands._ He was falling, pulled by a gravity to a center far below himself, and the only thing to grab hold of was her.

His head dropped into her shoulder, against her neck, and his hands grabbed along her back, which felt so small beneath them, and pulled her against him. His body felt burdensome in its weight, as though it would be too much for her, but he grabbed her and held on and she did not lose her posture.

He felt her speak against his neck as much as he heard it, her breath cool against the skin, her words vibration against the side of his throat. "What do you need, tell me?"

She pulled away from him now, holding his head again, which kept him steady; the loss of her body against his struck him with a momentary vertigo which passed as quickly as it came. "Tell me."

_What do you need?_

Such a question had variable implications. The question was either defined too broadly or too narrowly.

But the portion of his brain that fought back against his control answered for him, in a stream, without further prompting. He needed to be warm. He needed to be home. He needed to be thirty minutes earlier, conducting himself differently, saving the person who had taught him about humanity. He needed to meditate. He needed to sleep. He needed to curl up around her and breathe.

(But he did not need to sleep, truly--he had slept sufficiently the previous evening. These desires were illogical, to be suppressed, and not true needs at all.)

There were other things. His desires were louder now, drowning the sensible Vulcan that tried to quiet them. He needed the ship to run. He needed the ship to run, and he needed Starfleet within hailing distance. He needed to know where the _Narada _was going. He needed engines large enough to catch up, and guns powerful enough to be of service.

The words garbled strangely on their way to his mouth, and his instincts suppressed the expression of either ill-formed or illogical thoughts. There were not words in the universe to tell her, so he did not try to. Instead, Spock looked into her eyes, dark and liquid and full of an emotion he could not express but, for once, fully understood. He steadied himself in her.

He could not say that he felt less sorrow, less fury, less rage. He did feel, however, perhaps, very slightly, warmer. And very slightly less hollow. There were duties to be attended to. They were at war. Spock looked away, reaching for the button that would release the lift and send him along to his destination. His hand obeyed as though it were the simplest task in the universe.

He turned back to her, and his voice did not sound like his own, sorrow and self-control grinding it to gravel. "I need everyone--" A pause, a swallow. A continuation. "--to continue performing admirably."

She nodded then. She understood him, as she always did. He had observed this fact to himself on more than one previous occasion: for all that he found humans difficult to parse, and for all that humans commonly (and vocally) reciprocated the sentiment, she never seemed to struggle with his meaning. She whispered only the simplest "OK," with a nod, and kissed him again, a quick but meaningful pressure against his lips, once more, before the doors swept open, releasing them back into the broken universe.

For this, he did not attempt to exercise any measure of self-control. He simply closed his eyes against his vertigo and allowed himself to kiss her back.

* * *


End file.
